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dear xiansheng hey comrade,
for a while recently, there's some sort of creature
that nags and claws at my ribs,
pounding at them out of my chest --
it's not the foul thing that pointed its weapon
and its woes at the world, no, but somehow i have
this sinking feeling that it shares the same nest.
and all it does, inexplicably, is
want.
really, it just wants to sit down with someone
over hot tea and comfort food
and let them recite their new poems to
you until your eyes grow hooded,
and it wants to be dragged along like the tide,
go shopping with them for random teacups
and jewelry like some overeager bride?
if you're anything like me, and i know
that you are, you’ll pay for it all, it’s all in good faith,
though something tells you
that it was never your money to begin
with.
blood specked betrayal, you slash
and yet your focus is only on them.
wide grin, dead eyes,
envy of a blade of flowing floods
because these tongues of
steel
have tasted their skin before you have
and by the gods, tears are streaming,
when was the last time you’ve summoned
water
from anything but unhinged power?
it feels like that sometimes.
they’ve made you feel enough,
feel like enough,
to warmly, bitterly fill the void
you usually stuff numb with
blood.
(you were sent in faith to steal their heart
but why does it feel like they instead—
never mind.)
it’s definitely in the past, right?
you’re in the same boat as me.
it's a story that should've ended that night,
one of the only dreams that you've let
float away, broken and
free
but just imagine this:
one day the abyss starts speaking
to you in tongues you haven't translated
in a long time,
swaddled in that ragged blanket from a boy
that no one can truly remember, the salt
and memories frozen in the rime
and it almost seems like one monster
is about to win over the other --
and you would cackle, maybe,
if it wasn't so inherently
wrong --
until they come along.
somehow, somewhere,
right then, right there,
exactly where they should
be.
and suddenly, that creature happily
spills acid on the bloodlust, which
blooms into flowers in your throat
that sway so sickeningly with
trust.
now you just want to take them home,
teach them ice fishing and maybe how
to ski, and tell me comrade,
how does the snow on your heart melt
so easily with the warmth you feel when they
agree?
now, even though there is a very real chance
the biting cold might be your death,
(but when was the last time you cared about
that, with this unbidden fire
burning in your every breath?),
you just want to do something
as they finally catch a tiny little fish,
just to make it truly worthwhile,
the edges of those prim lips
curved up, baring draconic teeth
into something a mortal could call a
smile.
but if you're anything like me,
you'll ignore the sudden need that made
you drop your own fishing rod,
as well as the
subtle skip in your chest
the following splash of icy water,
the laugh from one who can't be your
god.
and if you're really anything lik e me,
you'll let the creature howl as
you wrap fingers around mugs
of hot chocolate mixed with firewater
and drink together, though
you will inevitably notice that
the skin of their knuckles brushes
against you like a long-awaited
tether.
i'm willing to bet that a warrior has never
before this so willingly backed into a knife,
(you make a pinky promise,
you keep it all your life,)
like it isn't a simple gamble with
an admittedly exhilarating price,
(you break a pinky promise,
i throw you on the ice,)
hoping that this isn't just
the regular means to an end,
(the cold will kill the pinkie
that once betrayed your friend,)
and praying to even the god in front of you
that it all works out, even as you walk into his den.
(the frost will freeze your tongue off
so you never lie
again.)
…maybe, just maybe,
i wanted and still want something more,
and maybe, just maybe,
it’s naive to believe i saw it too in their core,
true.
but by the gods, it’s been so long
since you and i have
dared to hope, and i found
that hope, that bliss—
maybe—
in those haunting eyes of
cor lapis.
it's odd, because by all means,
this creature is just another parasite,
but it's perhaps stranger to affirm that yes,
its name is love, to myself every
night.
funny how life works like that,
no?
with all my love and all my hatred,
from me to you,
Ajax