Whelve or bury deeply or hide something

Przepraszam, że tym razem nie po polsku, ale tak czasami jest łatwiej.

 Język może być jak duże ciemne okulary, możesz napisać 

wszystko, a potem się pięknie za nim schować.

Since my abuse and since I had swallowed all these pills, since that hard teenagehood I 

believed, that death had kissed me. That that kiss had come with vomiting and touched 

me from the inside, when I was choked by it. I believed also, that all my inner animals

 were killed then, that they were butchered for a bloody pulp and I was living with these 

infernal, decomposing corpses, stinking carcass, which poisoning my gut. 

But I died after that once again, and my animals were resurrected. 

"Dark prophetess, the sphinx" - Ovidius spins the thread - "now, lay dead, her puyzzles 

forgotten" - after Oedipus had solved the riddle, Sphinx jumped off the cliff. Internal

 languages untangled themselves, my external parts cut off from deeper me like from 

unwanted relative, the infernal situation was growing larger, spreading like a strange and 

beautiful virus in a shape of an english garden (Bacon's "the purest of human pleasures"), 

but hortus conclusus has stick out of the darkness with own heads and limbs, I wasn't able to 

hold it closed for longer,  this is my body which is for you, do this in remembrance of me,
 drink from me, I said, this is my blood, and there was no brave ones, no one dreams about 

rite or communion, men didn't expect anything more than getting into physically me, if I 

mentioned about slaughtering all my holy and unholy beings ( only then they may reborn 

stronger inside of me), when I mentioned about my boundless hortus deliciarum, when I 

was finally brave enough to say about them, these all men were too small. No one was 

able to surpass at least the same threshold. They were standing sometimes too long, 

against my Western Wall, putting their plastic desires in a tiny cracks, I was waiting in 

silence until they will go away, reading all these confessed wishes of small male 

paradises,  so I read about latex, corsets, heels like horseshoes, pink spanking, stylish 

eyebands, fancy ribbons to bound wrists like in these soft-porn novels, 

these braver ones 

happened to mutter with this trembling from fear voice "I want to fuck you, bitch", those 

more braver expressed their desire to get to my ass, the desire to see me on my knees 

licking their feet,  they wanted to whisper to me when, where and how I should touch self 

and why "exactly now, whore", no one was able to get in, no one was able to reach me, 

no one was able to make his desires possible, I felt like a sphinx, breaking neck by neck, 

 no one of them has opened me, no one has taken me, no one has understood this well 

inside, although they tried hard to satisfy my need of death, but how to know the death if you 

haven't experienced the one?, they had no chances at all.  It was a long journey to your feet, 

I would write one day. The one who would grasp me, i've felt this one, this feral bloodlust, 

 the one who comprehends, that it's not about the shallow sexual play. I've felt him with my medula

 nostrals or these nostrals which are deeper under my bones, the one, who is aware, that 

this surpassing is a wild and raw thing at all, that this is around our blood. It's not a fancy 

variety. This one, who knows, that I may wash his feet, but that I may bit and sting too,

 and it lies in my nature, not to change or to alter. The one who knows that I am only 

in a little part tamable, and who will not try to wipe out this wilderness with a physical or 

mental whip ( the whip is to surpassing only). Who is ready to let me also in, to cross his

 borders, if there will be the will, because we both own these half-dead, half-alived 

feral beings, we both know them well. The one who's aware, that he's already fuck my 

mind, that he's already in. And now, when I sense his presence, I cannot stop, 
I've never wanted to stop, it's the very rare moment in time, the only one moment in time, when

 the 

passage is opened. I want to give away my blood and my flesh, there is, somewhere under 

them both, my buried soul, or however you call it, there my soul lies, which was buried a long

 ago. And as is for that I have happened here, maybe I am not the mistake of the universe 

anymore, to give you blood and bone.  Infernal animals are overfilling me, they are the 

swelling, bulbous river.