wounding self
There is no self-control. Lusting after imaginations. Imaginations fired by words. Dark words with flecks of light.
But I realised these words – tits, ass, penis, boobs, breasts, cum – as much as they fire lust, they are so empty. So fucking empty. With images of God fading away in my memory, and fake substitutes in drawings, it only gets even more empty. It’s slowly becoming nothing.
I would like to give myself the excuse that drawings are not real people. At least I am not objectifying real people. I can look them in their eyes on Judgment Day with no shame.
But masturbation only becomes more empty without real subjects of lust.
My lower parts are hurting from my self-abuse. How I like to wound myself.