give this prince a
the time has come
I’ll take off all my skin
just to let you in
you’ll see my big black mess
my aching emptiness
you’ll never fill me
no matter how long you try
you’ll just get lost
you’ll lose those perfect eyes
lose that perfect mouth
and just like me you’ll be
a pile of bones
and I’ll be kissing you
in the bone yard
give this prince a
the time has come
Those curves are hard earned, they tell me,
from a lifetime of feminizing being wrapped around my waist
like a corset made of good intentions/sexual tension.
I want to rip it open, whale bone ribs and spring-steel busk
used to stab and slice at the reality
of my situation.
I want to be sturdy, not soft,
handsome, not pretty,
delicate in all the right ways—
a beautiful candy-boy
made of spun sugar and surgical steel.
Digging into your heart, your bones,
I want the memories of
“Is that a boy or a girl, mommy?” answered with
“I don’t know, sweetheart” to be seared into your mind with
They didn’t realize the world was ending until the day their eyes met. His were steel and hers were a hurricane, beating his foundations into something raw, bleeding, and new. No, they had no clue reality was unravelling as their lips met, explosions in the distance and shrapnel in the air were the fireworks behind their eyes. There was no way for them to realize Hell had broken loose the first time he touched her, leaving ash fingerprints on her breasts, bloody crescents in her hips, demons cheering on their union as the world burned. But they knew one thing. That someday, people would tell their children stories of the terrible things these two fleeting gods did for love.
When he pushed her against the wall, she knew it was the last straw.
She stood on shaking legs, blinded in a film of red. Something out of a horror movie. But hey, so was her life.
Who knew that he would try to take it this far? When did “no” become “absolutely yes”?
But that was then. And this, this was now.
This was a hand crusted in dried blood, clutching the hammer.
This was the slow walk downstairs, past photos and sports memorabilia, the shitty guitar he had hung on the wall. She always hated it. Hated his playing. Such an amateur.
This was the approach, the tape ripping apart and around, the sweaty sock gag slipped behind protesting teeth. Too drunk to fight.
This was the hammer, raised proudly high. This was the skull, cracking like a coconut, sweet liquid leaking out. This was frantic pig-squeals, this was dazed and foggy eyes.
This was euphoria.
“დიდხანს იყოს თქვენი ტანჯვა, მხიარული იყოს თქვენი ტკივილი!”
“Long be your suffering; Joyous be your pain!”
“We don’t like being lied to.”
A stinging slap across your cheek, and a moment later you’re spitting out blood.
“You lied to us.”
A punch to the jaw, and it’s a tooth you’ve spat out this time. A renegade molar smacks me in the cheek, and I laugh, the sound wrong to the ear; too many voices for one cruel mouth.
“We saw what you did, read it with our own eyes. Why would you lie?” Slash. Scream.
“Why?!” Quiver. Quake.
I toss the knife into the corner of the room. Useless. If She won’t make you talk, what will?
I grasp your broken face in my hands, twisting for emphasis. You wince, cry out, spatter my face red and wet.
My eyes are twin coals now. There is no going back.
In a way, I think you wanted it to end up like this.
You’re gagged. Blindfolded. Tied with rope. Duct taped to a sturdy chair, hands and ankles bound, raw and oozing.
You cant reply, but that’s alright. You’re too groggy, not aware of your surroundings. The dusty old barn, dilapidated and rotting, holds the cloying odor of decaying hay, animal bones, ancient dust. The scent will reach your nose soon, and when I uncover your eyes, they’ll beautifully contract with fear.
Or so I hope.
“Darling. Wake up. C’mon sunshine. The world says ‘hello!’”.
I undo your blindfold in a flourish, your eyes fluttering open, catching a dim ray of light that makes them blaze that gilded green I love. Breathtaking. For a moment, I can’t speak.
Then I remember the task at hand, and swallow all emotion but quiet, cold rage.
“Good, you’re up. Be glad I didn’t have to wake you on my own terms.” I stare down at you, a grimace on my lips. “I really wish you had believed me. Believed that I would come for you. I never was able to lie to you, after all.”
Your screams shook dust from the rafters, startled spiders into hiding.
But they didn’t last.
“If you die,” she said, “so will I.”
“That’s just a metaphor.”
“No, that’s just love.”