does anyone read this blog?

I wonder about these things. if anyone reads, they should comment here and tell me so I know, it would be nice.


I seem to use pictures as section holders, it seems.
It's bad because I WANT to write. I really want to write.
But I seem to be in a terrible writer's block right now. I can't write anything.
Even when I know what I want to write, I can't write;
I know the "story" that I want to tell, the event I want to describe, but I can't write. It's bad because I need to write for school for once. I've been begging my international short stories teacher to let us do some fictional/creative writing(we don't write in that class, it's a lit class) and now that we can-
we even have the perfect final project: write whatever the fuck you want-
I can't do it. I can't write. what's wrong with me.
I'll try:

swirling, spiraling, screaming.
blood bursts forth, a fountain of sweet toxic beauty
as I tear her throat with my teeth.
gnashing my canines together against the sweet softness
that is the muscle beneath.
my throat is so
dry, it is on fire,
I feel as if I am going to die
if I do not drink
from her throat.
before I know it her life is running down my esophagus
into my gut.
her eyes are still open;
she is dead, watching me.
I slide my claws deep into the hole I have created
in her neck,
scoring a path of fresh blood downwards across her sternum.
I tear her chest open,
drinking from the pool that has formed there.
I spread my lips open, sliding them past my enormous teeth
and break my way through her ribs and eat her heart in large, messy bites.
I am so hungry.
my throat is so dry.
I eat and eat until there is nothing,
her chest is empty,
her ribs strain to touch the sky.
I make fast, sloppy work of her arms, her legs, her gut;
nothing is untouched in my feast.
her soft, smooth intestines are so hot, steaming,
as I pull them from her soft, smooth body.
she no longer has a face
and I have eaten her eyes.
I leave her there, a skeleton,
broken pieces of her body strewn across the forest floor.
in the morning I will feel the pain of what I have done
but for now, I am not human, I feel no remorse.
her life has no value;
she is my food.
in the morning I will feel the meat in my stomach
and retch and retch until I can't breathe.
in the morning I will hate myself again.

that's enough for now. tired of writing.
this is what I mean by writer's block. even when I can write something at all, it's never for long. I used to be able to start writing and then write for hours and hours until I finished whatever story/thing it was.
unless it was one of my "stories" with no plot. those are never finished.
(Edith, for example.)

sigh.
at least gore is satisfying. I could do better, though.
[so much better. that up there is complete crap.]




I feel
kind of nauseous.
I thought tea would help, but it doesn't seem to.
the heat helps
a little, though...