Work Text:
If the poets wanted me to believe that love was anything but an evil,
then I would hope their stories were true.
In my power,
love was a weakness
surplused to the brim of knowledge
in the deepest depths of one's mind.
Vulnerable arms with the quivering touches
and lips that spoke words that you believed were never said aloud yet
because love was that trance.
Blood,
it was a cut in my skin
and blood was the revenge of tiny scars bitten into my arm
Taken by a blue light,
something of what I call an underworld.
Something of what I see as a sanctuary.
It hides me from the poets,
the gods,
the fears,
the angels,
and my mirror staring back at me.
Telling me what I see.
My hair is nothing but a flop barely above my shoulders.
My clothes were clingy,
tugging my skin and pinching my back harshly.
The pain wasn’t hatred,
something I’ve learned to enjoy as it kept going.
If life was torture,
might as well live through it.
And I ran through it like the windstorms.
And arms tried pulling me out,
no matter where I was
and where you could see me,
I couldn’t see me.
By the lake with my eyes closed like feathers
and the grass beneath me tickling my feet with itches,
I am still there.
They beg of me,
they tell me to follow them,
get out.
And with a stare in the eyes,
they blink,
stare
and their shadow was nothing more than a ripple in the lake.