Once upon a time there was a girl who lived in despair. She broke all the rules and found herself possessed by the masses. She became a weak and pitiful thing. She felt like a castaway because she could not “feel” emotionally distraught. She believed she was broken and lost. So, she took to the streets—

Her forsaken becoming. She played in the dark despite knowing that all she wanted was a savior. She circled their towers and took from their wells—she housed her holy delusions in their power.

She continued exploring within the damned and found herself a holy whore. She took from those who thought it natural to fornicate voraciously and without will.

What she brought to the table was the illusion of lust because she neither kissed them nor performed for them in the sack. She despised watching them pound her against the wall, but found more atrocious her ability to overcome.

And she waltzed in the dark pretending that all was fine and dandy. She defiled herself further and became a ruthless mercenary to any sister whore who defied her by disturbing her gory sanctuary, for the heads on the platters were hers, and hers alone—her trophy’s, the evidence of shame.

Yet, she felt nothing. Confusion was in her thoughts but not emotional distraught, not chaos, remorse, or guilt. She continued laughing, singing, preying, waltzing in the dark, circling around and around—shifting partners ever so often as required to “feel” alive.

Then one day she had enough, and she blew down their castles like the big bad wolf that she was. She stood there in the silence of her own despair, and noticed nothing in the pitch black—her body vanished the raging wars and she ushered out to the sluts: “this is my body given to you, you can have it no more”. She exiled herself not because they were bad, but because she had learned all that she needed from them. She conquered their world which had been hers too, and a new name emerged from the wreckage.

It was very becoming of her, and she feared it greatly, but she contended it was time to penetrate the system without a disguise—

She threw down her Clark Kent suit and traded it in for her truth—she yelled to the masses: “armageddon is here, and with it, I am, the exorcist, throw down your swords—fearful whores, redemption is here.

Exorcist:

I don’t proclaim any religion.

John Doe:

Our faith doesn’t allow us to lie to the police.

Exorcist:

What faith do you practice?

John Doe:

The Truth

Exorcist:

Ahh, I see (I remember my daughter pointing to the sign labeled "the truth" as we drove past that place of worship)

John Doe:

Ya, we get a lot of people who think we say that in an arrogant way, but that’s the name of our community. Truthfully there is no legitimate record of the what the life of Jesus actually was, but the preachers in our faith are the poorest individuals in the community. Most Christian and Catholic priests or preachers, are the wealthiest among the congregation. That's not us. My faith isn't like other religions (states many rules).

Exorcist:

I don’t proclaim religion because it’s based on idolatry.

John Doe:

Our faith doesn’t deal with images, statues, or saints like the catholic church.

Exorcist:

Idolatry is much more than worshiping images and objects—

John Doe:

Idolatry is putting anything before god...

Consumer Name; John Doe

Medical conditions:

schizophrenia, depression, limited mobility, severe lymphedema, morbid obesity, incontinence, tourette syndrome, anxiety, hypertension, vertigo, allergies, cellulitis, pure hypercholesterolemia

Medications:

Atorvastatin, Fluvastatin, Lovastatin, Pitavastatin, Pravastatin, Rosuvastatin, Simvastatin, Chlorpromazine, Fluphenazine, Haloperidol, Perphenazine, Thioridazine, Thiothixene, Trifluoperazine, Aripiprazole, Aripiprazole lauroxil, Asenapine, Brexpiprazole, Cariprazine, Clozapine, Iloperidone, Lumateperonee, Lurasidone, Olanzapine, Olanzapine/samidorphan, Paliperidone, Paliperidone palmitate, Quetiapine, Risperidone, Ziprasidone

Prognosis:

Poor

Exorcist:

Many people think I am arrogant too. One of the questions I get asked a lot is if I’m afraid of going to hell. I am not. When people hear this, they feel troubled, and I respond: is it not my father who knows what’s best for me and for the rest of humanity? My heart is available for all of my father’s will—I am happily forsaken to loving him through anything and everything, and I am unafraid of his commands because I am here to submit to them unconditionally, whether I benefit from it or not.

John Doe:

(Speechless)

Exorcist:

It was so nice to meet you John (I extend my hand).

John Doe:

(Hands me the empty soda can in his hand then realizes I’m actually there to shake his hand. Seems confused. Shakes my hand. Says nothing.)

Exorcist:

I’ll take that empty can too. I walk away.

John Doe:

Are you coming back?

Exorcist:

I don’t know. Let me check my schedule really quick. No. Looks like you're not on my schedule any other days.

John Doe:

So, you'll probably only be back if my regular person is out doing something...

Exorcist:

Probably. Have a wonderful day and it was really nice meeting you John.

John Doe:

Thank you.

Exorcist:

Thank you.

Where are those who say to love and trust in god unconditionally? Where are they when situations start to shift? Where are those who gather in the masses and choose to sit and dwell on themselves? Where are those righteous people who swear to know their father, but choose to be others karma? Who are those who prey on their knees and ask for others to vanish so they can be free?

Who are those who manifest in hatred and greed? Who are they? The one’s who hide from themselves, like quivering dogs. The ones with the “deed” to heaven, but hold no keys to their hearts. Who are they? Where are they? The ones who protect themselves from hell, but claim to trust in the father. Where are they? The ones trying to control the outcome of life after death.

The soulless are here. They go to church everyday. They obey like sheep but scatter like roaches. Who are they? Where are they? They’re the cowards hiding behind the words—spray painted on the asphalt in pretty powdered blue. Where is their father? Far, far, away.

What is the meaning of “shame”? Is it that story about Adam and Eve? The one where we pretend that original sin is a thing, but fail to see it’s someone’s cheap philosophy. As a psychopath, I’m not at liberty to say or much less feel anything. And yet, I’ve felt the need to hide from those who proclaim normalcy. How can this be?

What is shame? Where does it come from? Perhaps from that time when I terminated the life that was growing inside. Maybe it’s from all of those times when I gave up my body in a monetary exchange. I’m still not embarrassed enough to flee and escape me. Shame on me, or shame on you? Could the contempt come from the countless encounters of rape? I mean, I know I was too scared to say no. Too goat struck for fight or flight to kick in.

Tricks really aren’t for kids under fifteen. So, is it their fault or mine? Or is anyone at fault at all? How about privilege, or better yet, oppression. How to blame them when they only exist in my mind.

There are crimes, and then there are criminals. Am I a criminal? Have I committed a crime? Am I a psychopath? I am a psychopath. Does that make me flawed, or imperfectly capable of surviving this life?

Vulnerability is a superpower I possess. I take responsibility for who I am and hold others harmless. I do not feel “bad” about not being perfect, and I am incapable of hate. And even with all the turmoil, I still remain of public domain.

Confessionals aren’t big enough to hold the bold of statements coming in and out of my mouth, so where do I go?

Does being a psychopath make me crazy? Does it make me incapable of love? Incapable of compassion? Does it make me incapable of empathy? Does it make me disabled? Of course not, if anything it makes me divergent. It allows me to see who we really are—people who bestow judgement on others. Not that I’m any different. I’m like you too, minus the disgust, the distrust, and the indignation. Subtract the obsession with being “perfectly meek” and you’ve got me, the psychopath.

I don’t conform to a society that lacks empathy, compassion, and love for those who don’t fit into a square box. My heart belongs to the masses. I fight to protect all of humanity, not just the “morally correct”. And all of this makes me a psychopath, but everyone else normal. How can that be?

Welcome to the end of the world. You’ve been indicted for blasphemy. Is it not you who has chosen to oversee what you do not want to see? Is it not you, who breathes easier by demonizing others? Is it not you, who claims to trust god but can’t swallow the dark toad in your throat?

Hell, is hiding from who we really are. Hell, is for those who choose it. Hell, is for those who are stronger than life itself. Hell, is not for cowards, but cowards live there in silence. Hell, what a beautifully passionate word. It looks a lot like the religions of the masses and somehow feels safer than living amongst them.

Am I Blasphemous? Perhaps, but if the father sends me to hell, I’d gladly turn my feet there. Would I feel unloved and in exile? No. I love my father no matter what. I will go to this said “hell” on command if my father demands me to do so. With my head up high and without apprehension, I’ll march myself to hell, knowing that the lord, my father, has sent me there. I am not scared of my fathers will. I am here to submit to the creator, not to cower away and become bitter. I am greater than that. Hell isn’t big enough for me, and that’s a fact.

I do not hold true the notion of being punished. How can I be punished when I’m detached? This is my version of hell: it doesn’t exist. There’s just life, what we have, and what we make of it. But, what do we even possess?

Just a friendly reminder as I venture off into the unknown for a years time,

I am an exorcist, but I’m not here to save your soul. I’m here to expose and expunge the system inside. I am the exorcist. I expel oppression. I am the damned and I don’t presume to be anything other than myself. If you think I’m here to save you, you’re the one who suffers from delusions. No one can save anyone but themself. Saviors are fantasies—by product‘s of idolatry. Deliverance is a choice. If you like misery, stay there—it’s also a choice. I should know, I chose it 34 years of my life. Thanks to it, I know who I am. I trust who I am. I love who I am. Habitual misery can’t have anymore of my time. The end of times—when you decide that enough is enough.

Don’t miss me too much—codependence is not sexy.

The memory of multiple eruptions coming from the peak of his tower

haunt my world, and I surrender to the sweet punishment

inflicted by his hands...

Let me divulge to the world how I love to watch

his manly substance

melt slowly

down his shaft like Elmer's school glue,

but with a faint bleach smell.

I marvel at the sight of it flowing into his palms.

I anticipate it entering and sliding through the spaces

between his fingers

Resulting in lubricated pistons that power and

exhaust themselves until atole blanco

runs further down

only to come to rest on the side of his pelvis.

With my celibacy intact, I watched his manual overdrive—four illustrious and beautiful times. I’m thirty-seven and he’s twenty-five—simply, arithmetic’s to me.

There is no revenge, when I'm over you. I am the alpha and the omega. When the voice of an angry god is heard, the rabid beasts quiver, and run like scared sheep or flop over like goats. I'm a tornado in and out of my mind. I'm not for everyone, but I can have whoever, and whatever I want. Commoners are no longer my preferred playful prey--amusing me requires more than a waltz in the dark. My submission is a gift, but it comes with a warning: I bore easily, so don't be confused. There really is no "nice" person playing. Rejoice is always in my beginnings, and in my happy endings.