My basement is my slaughterhouse. I take apart dead animals and let the blood collect on the floorboards. I break the little rib-bones from possums and cats like flimsy twigs. I hang the dead on my walls. I drive nails into the wooden support beams to display the dead before my glistening lips.
These bodies are the crown and glory of my life…my effervescent treasures of rotting bodies. Everything I’ve killed, I’ve earned. I am standing here, thinking these thoughts upon a heap of stinking flesh of decomposing history. The blood in my veins is like the blood soaked deep in my clothes, just as red as any of the critters that were unfortunate enough to stumble upon my path. And I adore you.
I’ve made investments before, and they’ve gone under. I’ve failed, tripped up, fallen and I have been broken before, but not anymore. I’ve gotten elbow-deep in dead skin, blood up to my ankles in the pits of my basement. I left my scruples at the door, and hung up a sign that reads: “If anyone else passes through this door, I’ll kill them. Unless it’s you.”
One step into my basement, the smell will sting your senses. Not just your nose, but your eyes as well. The brine of the decomposition will stay in the fibers of your clothing for days. You can’t wash it off. The flagrant perfume of my profane, procrustean labors is overwhelming and is the product of my obsession towards savage dissection. Roadkill on my walls, each dead animal is my trophy; each hardened, beady eye is a relic of my wild, twitching desire. My horror is both written and erased in this basement. My bloody freedom made manifest in its absolute, reckless abandon. Despite these claims, I don’t want to spend my time in the basement. I want to spend my time upstairs, with you.
The first time I killed, I felt that rush. Just a dead raccoon, whatever. The rush was magnificent, and I swore on that grimy, greasy little raccoon body that I would never stop until that rush was constantly pounding my veins. Salvador Dali said “I don’t do drugs, I am drugs” and to him, I say “I don’t commit the kill. I am the kill.” To this end, I’ve killed many animals and I’ve found diminishing returns amongst their dead. That is, until I met you. The drug I had found in the cessation of the tiny, beating heart inside that little body was rendered moot and obsolete ten thousand times over, just in my time with you.
Kissing you is like a cacophony of broken bones, gunshots and howls of agony, all the beauty of total misanthrope turned into progressive, nurturing care. Humbling adoration, fascination and desire. Emotional, mental, physical.
You sent me a photograph of yourself, smiling, with a dead pet in your hands and all I could see is the beauty in your eyes. There is something remarkable about you, something I have never seen in a human being. I love you.
MWNL.
W.
Doomsday. 
Love
Yearning
Devious
