God did not mean to give me a mouth.
He meant to give me hands, eyes, a heart
but not a mouth.
When I speak something in me bleeds. When I-
I speak, and my eyes fog over like glass.  
I can't see you standing there, I'm so sorry. Show me again, where did you put the bread?  

I feel like a thing that needs to be forgiven.

I feel so fragile sometimes.
I am trying to understand the
weight of the evil inflicted upon me.
It is heavy. I never understood that 'till now.

I wasn't meant to carry this weight, but I do.
I wasn't meant to speak the way I
so often will, but I do.

What can I say anymore?
I can't write without bleeding. I can't speak without knowing it is a wound. How can I communicate without tearing something open? I'm afraid of shutting up and looking for my language. If I decide to leave behind every word that hurts me, would I have any words left? Will it **** the little bit of connection with people I have left?

Listen.
I hope you forgive me for the little sadness I'll inspire in you.
I am afraid, but don't pity me. I am blossoming and becoming something else.
This, apotheosis, this becoming closer and closer to my own light.
It is a process that requires allowing death.
What must die must die. Allow grief.

I'll leave you with this:
If you slept next to me, it would be
much like sleeping with a letter under your pillow.
Every night, every night...

*"Here I write to you a list of cruelties I am capable of.
May you never forget:
I have made the flower so that it may blossom, and I have made the lamb so that it may eat it.
Blessed be the one willing to become.
Here, the flower. Here, the lamb."

- God

A wolf in the bushes. A deer in the clearing.
      I know you are looking at me
        because I too am the wolf.

You know I know, because you are me in my knowing.
We are so quiet in our hiding, and yet the deer raises its head.
You sprint to me now.
Here our ever-loving, this sacred tragedy.

O beloved Ever-Creature,
Will you chase me into Godliness, or into the end of It?
I will chase you more–
My precious enemy, again and again.

Divine Ouroboros.

How fragile the leg that snaps, how ****** the neck torn.
You slip and I catch you. I fight and we die together.
The antlers today, the doe eye tomorrow.
Forever this day, no matter the way.

We are the running, the forest, the hooves and fang.
The twig that catches my leg, the corner that traps us.
God is when I **** you.
It is your teeth in my flesh, the tear in the widened eye– my precious thing, and then we do it all again.

A wolf in the bush. A deer in the clearing. You make no sound, but I know where you are. I lift my head and see you. I know you. I know you. I have always known you.

If you say to me, "I need you", it's not a weakness.
It is a giving.
It is
   a trust in me to know, and I know;
You love me and choose to depend on me.
Because--  you could fetch the cup of water
  yourself, with your strong legs, your long legs, or
You could ask me,
Sitting on the writing desk we put somewhere in the living room.
   Next to the kitchen, my love, next to the kitchen.
(Because when I write, I like to watch you cook)

You could ask me, to reach,
for the cup, with my short legs.
You could ask me because we know, and we know,
You love me and choose to depend on me.

I will reach for the cup. I will reach for the cup because I love you
and I know, I know, when you say you need me,
it is a giving.

I'm tired of seeing the good in you. I'm tired of giving and watching as you sit and receive. Did someone tell you you were a king? Your made a crown from paper when you were twelve and you still walk around with it on your head.
I don't want your apology. If I see you I want to punch you in your mouth for all the times it could've said the words and didn't. Even now you have no idea what an apology is. Even now you have no idea what it all did to me.

I'm tired of trying to see the good in you when I know you've never tried doing the same for me. I'm tired of giving and watching as you sit and think you have a throne, that I owe you myself, like a jester, that I exist to fix it like you asked me to do that day in bed in that nightmare of an apartment. I'm not a hammer. I'm not your mommy. I'm not your dad. Go to therapy.

You idiot, you stupid idiot. I nurtured my own light and you never even tried to do the same for yourself. I watched you run that day and kept my wide, unblinking eyes open as your body gave next to the finish line. I sat in the hallway and you came back so I'd chase you. If I looked inside your skin the bruise on your leg would still be there, unhealed to this day. Now you get nothing. There's nothing. You didn't try and now nobody gets anything.

The lesson I had learned was that I have to allow it.
When it comes, I have to let it rip me apart.
It's a good lesson. I apply it to every pain.

But with this thing in particular, allowing may not
be enough.

I don't know how else to say it anymore.

What do I say? That I want you to **** the pride out of me,
So something in me shatters and I allow, allow
That I want to do the same for you?

That I'll let you hold my mouth open, so you see what I can never seem to say, so you see your name, so you see yourself dripping down my chin?
What do I say-
That nobody was sharp enough to even try, that sharpness is what I've become-
That nobody told me what to do with a blade that is alive.

I'll tell you.
Everything alive knows only to be what it is. To grow, to be more of itself.
The blade that is alive knows only to be sharp. And over the years, only grows sharper.

But if I say it, if I say these things, what will you say?
Angel.
Tell me you can dull me.
You, golden blade.
Tell me you want to.

Has it ever happened to you that
Have you ever felt like living was not enough.?
Like you craved something so rich and true that existence felt like it paled in comparison?
That’s how I want.

I think I feel desire the way gods do.

I want completely. I want to wrap my tongue around yours. I want to reach inside you and kiss your beating heart. I want to be able to look at you and see the things behind your eyes and hold the hand inside your hand.
I want you to **** me as foreplay.

Do you th
Do you think gods want like this?
Do I want to be consumed the way a god does?
Bored with existence. Needing the light behind the light.
I want to forget my name when you **** me.
I want nothing but us to exist.

I want us to take turns killing each other.
I want the ecstasy of death. What replaces that? What could replace that?
What will I do if I can’t have it?
I’ll throw another fit, and sit on the edge of the bed with my leg bouncing, again, like I have so many times before. Before. Before you.

I don’t think there’s a cure.

I think about what it would do to her. To call her: god. Divine majesty.
Do not be afraid she says.
And how we must be reminded every time...

When these creatures undress before us, and their form is an arrow sleeping in our gut. Our insides wrenching again and again each time we look. The more you worship, the more pain you know. Terror resides in the beauty of their form- a body we cannot understand. A body that is never wrong.
And oh, how we can’t help but look.

I look.

For me, the moon is full and hanging behind my eyes.
The wrenching and the writhing
The moaning and pain
It is sublime, unbearable transformation.
Transmutable worship, transmutable horror-- Nourishment for a thing caught in its becoming.

You caught me in my becoming.

I am the dragon and the maiden it keeps.
I am the mouth and the hand reaching inside it.
Darkness and light begin to blur.  
         𝐃𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐛𝐞 𝐚𝐟𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐝.
𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨 𝐰𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠.​​​​