come pick me up.

correctivejack — Wed, 31 Mar 2010 05:44:38 +0000

WHY ISN’T EVERYTHING ACCESIBLE. WHY IS EVERYTHING ON TELEVISION SEXIST. WHY DO THE MCDONALDS ADS INFURIATE ME. WHY IS THIS SO FUCKING ANNOYING AND INESCAPABLE AND HARD. WHY AM I WEAK AND NOT NORMAL. WHEN WILL THIS END. WHY WHEN I TELL MY FRIENDS ON TRANS MAN ANGST DO THEY IGNORE ME. WHY DO I FEEL SO SORRY FOR MYSELF.

NO QUESTION MARKS.

Jack of no trade.

correctivejack — Wed, 31 Mar 2010 05:24:17 +0000

There is absolutely no questioning why trans people kill themselves. Such a long and arduous process. STP, packing hard packing, soft, binding – all just to start. Thousands of dollars to feel real and okay. All because of some nasty swift knick of fate.
Even two stage surgery in Thailand is ridiculous. All this shipping, all this waiting. It’s fucked and unfair and regardless of the expenses there is a cruel, ignorant world out there. This is going to take years and that is the hardest thing to swallow, really.

correctivejack — Wed, 21 Oct 2009 02:48:47 +0000

I think of how you looked down on my, rope and a peeling ceiling to stare at. I was aching, burning with desire I thought had left my body for good.

I miss that & fuck I miss you.

And threads that are golden don’t break easily.

correctivejack — Sat, 17 Oct 2009 02:27:22 +0000

I am wearing sunglasses indoors, keeping out the poison and the glare that stings my corneas. Your apathy or moreso the lack of passion you feel when you think of me. You don’t whisper, scream my name anymore. Whatever you do,

I don’t know if I want to know.
And maybe I’ll find me a sailor
A tailor

I spoke to a good friend about kink, someone unexpected, someone who asked me to go home with her,someone I refused. I’m still bruised and fucking soft from the battle, the unspoken battle, the unspoken.
I called Dettie a few nights ago and she is in Brisbane atm, she hasn’t re-contacted me. I’m not so surprised. Another one who fell under the wing of Tk, I have never been that fucking graceful. I do not care anymore. I care for BYO at GP guild bar and dancing with 2x Queers who I fucking adore.

D&H for the win.

Fucking.

AKJHSlKJYHSDKLjhsadlkfhlksdfasd

queen of apology.

correctivejack — Wed, 14 Oct 2009 02:54:19 +0000

I just want to beg, kneel at your dais and ask for mercy, for love, for sex. I don’t want things to be this messy anymore. Some days I can feel safe knowing I can get over it and then it takes one small shake of a hand and I am back to where I started. Helplessly in love with no means to help feed my desire.

I miss her soft voice in my ear and her arms wrapped around my waist, pulling me into her body until we clicked. There is no sex, no knife fights, nothing anymore. Just my shaking hands reaching out to her side of the bed, drawing her outline – invisible ink. I dream of her, wake with her there, walk, talk, eat, play with her there. I don’t know what to do, I am trying to just get over it because it seems so unimaginable, the prospect of a her and a me any time soon. I don’t want to. I do. I don’t. dfas.f

She doesn’t want to talk to me and I don’t know what to do when I am checking my phone too much, waiting for a sign. Waiting to be missed.

I didn’t feel like I could communicate things that bothered me. I just frustrated her every second. Fuck. Internet, this is beyond what I’ve known.

Come tie me up and punish me for my filth and mess, cut my wings and whip my ass until I know better. Tell me there is no other Mr (and there isn’t) and keep me under your gaze for the day.

Whatever.

correctivejack — Fri, 09 Oct 2009 22:43:45 +0000

I am fucking over this hurting heart and your reckless hands twisting me, saying that I am playing with yours when you are just fine without me. My heart is ticking too fast. Putting myself on the line and having them spin me around and let me fall when their arms get tired.

correctivejack — Fri, 02 Oct 2009 03:27:36 +0000

I am teetering on the edge of reason.
I tried to hold off dialling, dialling. One hour, two hours, three, four. Give in. Give up. Breathe in, breathe away.
I have decided to let go. I can hear it echo when I say it, go, go, go, go.
I am looking for a small tiny place somewhere hidden in Sydney but I don’t even know anymore. I have plans but no guiding feet. I feel like a ghost.
I really shouldn’t have done that. I was flying through today. Fly. I was tyring to have a night without supervision tonight but oh.
I have spoken to 23 people today. I can’t remember the last time I did that.

Who will stay with my reckless sleep and sleep talk tonight?

I’ve even curved this body to fit your bow.

correctivejack — Fri, 18 Sep 2009 01:53:50 +0000

Decisions are pending. To come or not to come.

I am suspended before a deaf jury, slung in rope but I’m no Martyr.

They spin me around and the rope tightens, my skin spills out between the gaps. I gasp. They gag me.

I feel blood drip down my back and just as my skin is repairing itself, they distribute another lashing. They laugh, choke, force feed me their cocks, slap my face when I gag. My cheeks burn from hours of slapping; balls, hands flat and fist curled, feet, dripping wax, cum. I hang, my legs bent inward, adjacent to my back with my hands fixed tightly, my fists tied closed.

I imagine a pool of my blood below me but there is nothing to see beneath a black blindfold except the sparkling inner workings of my corneas. I don’t open them anyway. The taunt me, poke and prod, fingers, hands, cocks, mouths. Bite, scratch, cut, burn. I have lost track of time. Surrendered and expect nothing more than slander and forced entry. My sex drips down onto one master’s cock as he is filling my ass, he gets infuriated and pinches his fat fingers around the most sensitive part of all, I lunge forward and swing into him as he pulls me back hard.

We are nowhere near finished.

Valentine, I want to feel your hips pressed up against mine.

correctivejack — Thu, 03 Sep 2009 22:46:47 +0000

I am not so sure about this or you. I am not so sure.
You float around aimlessly and I wonder if you even have a small inch of me tucked beneath your wings.
I am finding it difficult to come to terms with this.

[ And thusly it ends
Depression seeps in on a lonely messiah
Now he drinks with the lepers
Losing a limb, his better half
A glass once half full
A head hung half-mast
He claims he's the victim
Strangled by the nine-to-five
And a pattern of stillness
That haunted this still life

Your tears are only alibis
To prove you still feel
You only feel sorry for yourself
And that's how you thrive
Your sorrow's your goldmine ]