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.”
I wish I could see you right now.
I wish I could hold you, curl
Into the hollow of your back, bury
My face in your too long hair;
I hate you, I want you,
I want you I want you
I want you
Tomorrow I will
Buy myself chocolates
In delicate cardboard
And wilting roses no-one chose;
Roses just like me.
Bruise didn’t have friends. Not exactly.
Nor did he have any family, no, not in the conventional sense. He stood by the towering Christmas tree, a monster of fir and tinsel and tiny sparkling lights, lights that glanced off Bruise’s fingernails like smooth shards of ice. Admired the large room, filled with modern furniture, presents on all surfaces, the smiling cheery faces that belonged to this home beaming from metal picture frames above the roaring fire. The home still held the heady aroma of pine needles and spiced apples, mulled cider.
This was not his home. if he had one to begin with. No, Bruise didn’t live anywhere. He licked the corner of his finely sculpted mouth, then spat venomously into the container of water that kept the tree clinging pathetically to life. He would not be there to revel in the looks of dismay that would cover this family’s faces as they gazed at their blackened and decaying symbol of the season. Bruise would be long gone by then.
Her flesh stirred beneath his fingers, and he recoiled, stuttering, “I-I am sorry, I could not help but to touch you, you were so still, so beautiful—” he paused here, thoughtfully adding, “I only wanted to ruin you a little bit.”
The candlelights in the chamber began to flicker and fade, instilling a great fear in Vellian’s heart. He quivered and cringed, and the form beneath him began to rise, and as she devoured him soul and all, he realized his folly.
I love it when he scoops me in his arms just before the sun rises, just before he leaves for work in the morning. He tells me I should go out, get some fresh air, and he mauls my cheek and neck with stubbly kisses, his still damp hair sticking to my cheek. I love his glee at the fact that it is Friday, which means casual dress. And most of all, I fear that I am beginning to love him.
It’s not a quick plummet.
This time it is a slow descent.
This is not romantic.
This is not “beautiful melancholy”
This is me wanting to end the world
You make my blood stir.
I haven’t felt this in a long while, the easy tug of it through fragile vein, rubbery artery. The grasp on the vital muscle nested in my chest between meat and bone-cage. The thud and thrust of blood through delicate tissue, making me feel something resembling life.
I find it difficult
to remember a time when
this felt familiar,