What The Hell's Wrong With Me?

There is a ghost in time that she loves still-a memory. Wrapped in a gossamer veil of stardust and moonbeam she recalls the taste of his lips-melted honey. Try as she might she cannot forget. There is an ache in her body but a much deeper ache within her heart. The steely softness of his lips overshadows her mind these days and she longs for one more moment with him, just to taste the heat of his mouth-to feed on his lust one last time...

"Whenever the white man treats the Indian as they treat each other, then we will have no more wars. We shall all be alike--brothers of one father and one another, with one sky above us and one country around us, and one governmnet for all."

Joseph (Himnaton Yalatkit) (1830-1904) Nez Perce chief

   Sometimes the worst memories come to light at the most inopportune times and suddenly you find yourself spiraling down into that thick cesspool of darkness and hate. You sit and plot and viciously and desperately wish for their deaths. You desire nothing more than to feel that thick, hot blood flooding over your hands as the fear and shock of their own mortality crashes into their reality with blinding pain. Years of arrogance and pretentious bullshit catches up to them and they realize far too late how dangerous you truly are. A lesson learned the hard way perhaps. But a lesson that must be learned. Will their god help them when the leash, so badly frayed as it is, finally breaks? Will their god protect them in their dishonor when their god wouldn't protect the innocent from them? What kind of god would not strike them down to begin with? What kind of god would make an innocent suffer and allow them to bask within their false sense of superiority? The kind of god that drinks the blood of virginal sacrifices and demands screams of anguish as hymns. Perhaps the sort of god I should worship.