I'm lost
I'm lost and I shouldn't be
I've walked here before
tread these broken dreams
shredded my feet on these shattered hearts.
Barefoot and naked,
I walk here again
down the familiar pathways
towards the door I've been through before.
But I'm lost.
The pathways are familiar
yet I know them not
I've been here before-
haven't I?-
and this time...
this time I should know.
I should know to turn back
walk away
rewind, reverse, back up, run
run screaming
even though I know no one will hear my cries.
Yes, I walk these pathways
of my own shattered dreams
and broken hearts.
The familiarity is of the old dreams.
I'm lost because Time keeps killing new ones.
And I've always been alone.

"Dear lord Candi...
My generous goddess, hear me. I have need of thine aid in this matter which may be insignificant to you. But to me, lowly human that I am, it is of the greatest import. Goddess whom I worship, will you grant me this one request? (Insert request here) Dear, dear god, I will sing your praises for all time, whether or not you answer my puny prayer. Goddess, my god, I thank you for taking the time to hear me. Amen"
See, now, THAT'S the proper way to phrase a prayer to me. Well, at least it gives you an IDEA, but feel free to extemporize, edit, etc., and make it unique to you. I take prayers via email daily. Lots of "you are great and I am a lowly peon" will get you VERY far with me.
*grin*
If I WEREN'T god, I'd be going straight to hell, wouldn't I?
Laters

"Your blog has lost it's luster. You no longer write of things that interest me. Just the same old stuff. You talking about your twisted relationship with your current and your self loathing about the one who never existed. You allowed yourself both evils and still allow them both to haunt you. You made your decisions, the first to believe someone you never met, the next to allow someone you don't know live with you and fuck you. Get over yourself and start thinking like you used to at the beginning of the blog, when it was still bearable."
'Bearable'? As in 'tolerable'? Or is it more than that? Why would you read something you only once found 'bearable' and is no longer so?
*shrug* This is my life. So maybe it is no longer 'bearable'. Maybe, dear friend, it's that way to both of us.
Care to help me out of it?
Laters

Heat and desire, lust and surrender...how does one write about sex without using all the old words? Without submitting to the useless conventions of language? Which language? Any language. Sex is a universal, I don't have to talk to you to fuck you. How often have *I* proven THAT? With people I wouldn't be caught dead conversing with, I've fucked. How many? More than a few.
God, but I love sex. Why? Who knows? I've had so SO much bad sex, MOSTLY bad to tell the truth. Why do I allow it to continue? Why do I like it, love it, revel in it? Dunno. Maybe never will.
Now sex with Raven is different. He doesn't just fuck me, it's never-well, almost never-just about His prick in me, His hard cock finding my wet opening. It's also pain. Painful pleasure, and oh GOD but He knows what He's doing. He knows how hard to swing the whip, how tight to bind me, how deep to cut. He knows, somehow, what I'm capable of, what I can handle, what I want and need every time. How does He know? How does He DO it?
Last night we fucked. Just fucking, no pain. Well, ALMOST no pain, it's never entirely without it, not when fucking Him. The way He watches me embarrasses me sometimes, the intensity of His stare, the focus of His attention. He listens to me breathe, sometimes even holding His own breath to notice mine. And then it's over. He comes, I don't. At least last night, every now and then I can and do. Afterwards He just holds me, tracing His fingers along my skin, lightly brushing the bruises or cuts He's given me. I love that touch, the sting of it, the reminder that He's given them to me, the knowledge that HE likes the feel of them and the reminder that I allow it, that I like it, that I revel in it.
And sometimes when He's holding me I cry. Dry sobs, quiet, so He can't feel the moisture on His skin, the heaving of my body. I cannot break down. Not because of Him, not because I think He would turn me away or love me less or want me less. But because I would not stop. I'm stuck in this space between a blink and a tear, and once I cross the line-towards tears, there's no other way to go, no going back to the blink, no regression, only advance or stagnation-I would forever be melancholy, always be confined to depression and heartache.
But aren't I already?
I really, REALLY loved him. A dream, a lie. "I didn't think it was possible." Oh, but it was. For me, it always was. But I have always been sorely underestimated.
Laters

I'm playing this part because it's what I'm expected to do. Because I don't really have a choice.
Did I ever?
But it's just an act. A fabrication, a facade. I'm not this girl. I'm not His slave. He is not my Master. I allow Him to be here for no other reason than my desperate need for companionship and my codependence-on anyone, anything. And I will continue to allow it and continue to pretend as long as He likes, as long as He continues lavishing on me his attention, his many MANY "I love yous". I don't love Him, not any more than a general care and basic affection. I gave all my love to someone who did not and will not ever exist.
And god, how that hurts. How I long to break down and cry. But I know I'd never stop, that I'd run out of tears and start crying blood. How appropriate, though. How...morbid. I WOULD die for love. I'd do anything for love. Even forgive to the point of losing all myself. I have. And will again.
But aren't I worth more than that? Aren't I better than a cliche, a platitude spoken to empty air? Should I shield my heart? Put it behind walls impenetrable? WOULD I rather have never loved than to have loved and lost-and been betrayed the way I have been? Do I lie to myself? Do I KNOW myself? Does ANYONE know me?
God, my head hurts. I think I'll go die now. Or at least sleep, I don't care which. I just welcome oblivion.
Laters

He sits there, moderately preoccupied, reading and watching the movie I've put on to distract myself. I notice His empty cup and rush to refill it. He smiles and thanks me. No thanks needed, my Master.
Later He looks at me and winks. He winks at me a lot. He tells me He loves me even more often than He winks. I have always lived for those words. I'm a whore for them. And men deliver. I've never met a man who didn't. Some women, too. Yes, you love me. How many have I loved in return?
And can I love this one?
Or will I never love again...
Laters

Ohhh, He said it. And each sylable dropped bitter sweet and honey sour from his tongue. The word-my name-felt so unnatural coming from His lips to rest in my ears, burrowing deeper to find my mind and my heart. My name, my real name, when for so long He's called me something else-a nickname, a fabrication. No longer just part of me, He owns all of me. He would have it no other way. And oh, how I've hungered for that, to hear that word, the only word that is completely, totally, singularly mine, fall from between the teeth of someone who loves me. And I could hear it. The love behind the word, the desire, the infinite longing. The word, my name. Three simple bursts of sound, meaningless in any other form. My name and then "All of you is mine. And I love you." Yes, I am His.
Laters

Alternate Ending
Really, at this point, ANY ending would do.
Laters

FireOpal does not exist. *sigh* I should have known better than to love.
Laters

A new day.
The sting of the water against the pain He inflicted reminds me I am His.
The touch of the cloth against the pain He gave me reminds me I am His.
The look of the scars from the pain He dealt me reminds me I am His.
It is a gift, this pain. A gift to me from Him. And a gift to Him from me. He gives me the pain I so desperately desire, and I give Him my screams, my moans, my body to do with as He pleases.
And it pleases Him. Oh, yes. The smile on His face, the hiss of His breath, the half whispered "yessss...", the hardness of His cock as I wince or moan or scream, the pleasure in His very being as my pain and my pleasure-and now they are so close to the same thing that I can no longer distinguish one from the other and I crave them both-bring Him to that ultimate moment...these are my spies, His betrayers. He cannot hide His enjoyment from me, He cannot conceal His delight.
And thus I am His.
And He is mine. My Master.
Laters

Hours later.
It feels like mere seconds, and I can still sense the caress of the blade on my bare skin. I love it, the painful pleaure, the smile on my Master's face, knowing that I've pleased Him. I love the pain. I love the pain independently of my Master, and He knows it. But the way in which He inflicts it, so masterfully, with such art and skill, is a wonder to me. And I have come to need it. No, not it. Him. I need Him. I need Him to hurt me, to show me how much further I can go. I need Him to love me, to leave His mark on me and never let me go.
Hours later and I sit here, rubbing the smoothness of my freshly shaved crotch, licking my fingers and pressing them against my clit, stroking it lazily for a moment. Then I shift in my seat and another flash of pain brings me closer to the edge. The scratches on my back and chest and neck and legs and ass chafe And I remember my Master's face, His smile at that look on mine. Knowing His pleasure without His presence...takes me to the edge and over it. My fingers cease their directed course and now move away to resume their aimless wanderings.
God I love being female!
Laters

The knife.
I revel in it. The gentle touch of it against my skin as He teases me, the more intense scratchings as He prepares to draw blood. The metal, cold at first, heats to the presence of my body, and I miss its chill. Then it bites and the warm red fluid spreads out from its sting. It bathes me in its essence, and I am cleansed. He brings His lips to the source, tasting me, drinking the sticky salt liquid, so much darker, so much thicker than His usual preference. He moves His face closer to mine and I can see the single drop of myself falling from the corner of His lips. His smile shows that I have pleased Him, His eyes speak that I am His as He takes all of me into Himself.
Laters

"Every time I'm telling secrets
I remember how it used to be
And I realized how much I miss you
And I realize how it feels to be free

Now I see I'm up to no good (no, no, no)
And I wanna start again
Can't remember when I felt good (baby)
No I can't remember when
No, only in my dreams
As real as it may seem
It was only in my dreams
Couldn't see how much I missed you (now I do)
Couldn't see how much it meant
Now I see my world come tumbling down
(tumbling down my world)
Now I see the road is bent
If I only once could hold you (no, no, no)
And remember how it used to be
If only I could scold you
And forget how it feels to be free
No, no, no, no, only in my dreams
As real as it may seem
It was only in my dreams"
Laters

I am an utter fool.
Laters

Fucking A. Well, it STARTED as fucking A, but I think it's better now. I'm not used to sharing, despite being one of four kids, but I love her. And I hate him, so it all works out. Of course, it doesn't make sense, but hell, the world's pretty fucked up and so am I and so is she and he REALLY fucking is so now why not just accept it and move on? Yeah, that's the way of it.
Really, I'm in a pretty good mood. Dunno WHY, my nipples have been reduced to bloody tatters, but hell, they'll heal. If they're given the opportunity to. Just had to put that in because Raven's reading while I type this morning.
I'm smoking again. I LIKE smoking. The hell with all that "it's bad for you" shit, one of these days they'll come up with a study that BREATHING is one hundred percent fatal. Birth is one hundred percent fatal, you fuckers. Gotta die of something and at least maybe this way I'll have a choice in the matter.
I should really update this more often. SOMEBODY keeps distracting me, though.
Laters

Fucking Raven will not fucking leave. I goddamn hate him, loathe him, despise him. And I hate the pain now, the sadism no longer holds anything for me. And I am in constant pain. I no longer take it because I want it, I take it because I have no choice. I do not submit to him out of a will to please him, but out of a vague desire to keep my word-a bet we made, he won, even though he cheated-and the knowledge that he likes hurting me in general, and he won't stop if he's angry, if he feels he has something to punish me for. And oh, does he have something to punish me for. And will continue to do so. Because if he's insisting on staying until he wishes to leave, I'll make him wish to leave. He claims to love me. I'll let him see just how fucking miserable he makes me. Every godforsaken bit. And I will no longer fuck him willingly. But we all know who's stronger, don't we?
I've lost everything. Now I'll make him do so, too. There's no way in hell I will ever let him keep me. MY will be done. "Yes, Master."
FireOpal gave me up. Somewhere between a blink and a tear, he let go of all that's in his heart. And forgot all that's in mine. *sigh* If I prefer being miserable, I must be in total fucking bliss at the moment.
Laters

"Why no recent Blog? I was quite interested in what you allow everyone else read except for those that you don't know personally.
It's kind of like a billboard diary in a town you've never even considered visiting."
For some reason that image appeals to me. Like an advertisement for Virginia, because what the hell is in Virginia, and who would go there if they didn't have family or something? Or Wyoming. Who the hell would go there ANYWAY (and I DO have family there)? Is that what this is? A pathetic attempt to gain visitors? I wonder what the tour guide would say? "Welcome to my inner mess. Everything in here is fragile, handle with care-or for your own good, just don't handle at all, it's really safer that way. To the right we have fears and hopes-see the itty bitty door?, that's hopes-to the left we have shattered dreams and faded illusions. Moving further along, we have insecurities and confidences-no, that's not a mouse hole, that's the confidences. And soon you'll get to see pain and pleasure-careful there, though, sometimes the screams get quite loud, and I never CAN tell which of those it's coming from. Up ahead we have childhood-please don't step on the little running things, none of us have ever been able to figure out what they are, but we're all pretty sure that SOMEthing would break if they were trampled. Ah, and here's what we've been waiting for: random thoughts. Notice how this section takes up the most room, how ornate and intricate the whole thing is. Doesn't it just make you think 'god, what the hell does this chic DO all day, sit around twiddling her thumbs thinking up this fucked up shit?' Yeah, sometimes I wonder that, too. Now if you'll all excuse me, it's almost time for my lunch break. I'm sure you'll find everything to your....um....interest. And you might even find a way out one of these days. Hell, I'm still looking for the cafeteria."
Yeah, that sounds like my inner tour guide.
Laters