the way haymitch must have seen it as all his ghosts coming back to haunt him at once when katniss walked onto the train with the face of burdock and asterid, the pin of maysilee, the voice of lenore dove, and a background so devastatingly similar to his own. of course sweetheart slipped out. and of course he did everything he could to keep her alive
Love how tumblr has its own folk stories. Yeah the God of Arepo we’ve all heard the story and we all still cry about it. Yeah that one about the woman locked up for centuries finally getting free. That one about the witch who would marry anyone who could get her house key from her cat and it’s revealed she IS the cat after the narrator befriends the cat.
When you were young, your mother used to read you an old fairytale every night before bed.
It was a sad story, about lovers who walked through hell to reunite with one another and almost succeeded, only to be separated again forever in the last moment. It made you cry, and the next night you would beg your mom to read it again.
"You know it'll be sad, right?"
"This time they'll win, mom! This time they'll have a happy ending!"
But they didn't. Nor did they win in the next night, or the night after that.
Deep down, logically, you knew it'll always end the same way. The story is done. It's been told long before you were born. But when mom was telling it, you could pretend that maybe this time it'll work out. This time will be different.
When you grew older you didn't stop pretending, even though you knew it was silly and getting sillier. When you learned to read and write, one of the first things you wrote was a new ending. It was bad, about you as an all-powerful angel coming down to help the lovers reunite and then you get invited to their wedding.
"It's not real, it's fanfic." a friend told you when you showed them. They explained the word, and you saw what they meant. But you didn't care, seeing the words on the page helped you pretend.
You read voraciously as you grew. All kinds of stories with all kinds of ending. But you kept coming back to that one. Reading from your mom's old copy which her read to her from.
You didn't need mom to read to you anymore, but sometimes you asked her to anyway. Occasionally she'd do it, but more often than not she was tired.
Soon she stopped reading. Then she stopped speaking altogether, her voice too weak and throat too sick to speak aloud. That's when you started reading the story to her.
It was hard at first, your tears choking you up. It was hard pretending that the story will end differently.
"The diagnoses are just estimates, probabilities." your dad said. And when he spoke, you could pretend there was a chance. But when the doctors spoke, their words felt as final and unchanging as the old words in the storybook.
Eventually, mom was no more. Your dad read something personal and touching in her funeral. Everyone thought you would, too. Everyone knew how much you loved writing since you were little.
You thought you would write too, imagined it in your mind as your mother's end drew near. You had so much to say, but the words wouldn't come out. The only words that would come to you were from the story. You tried to bat them away, but you knew you couldn't. You couldn't change this ending.
When it came your time to eulogize, you pulled out the book and without preamble started reading from the second-to-last page. This time there was no pretending.
Everyone knew the story, even the people who didn't know mom personally. Everyone knew it will end in tragedy. The lovers will not get a happy ending.
Except this time they did.
You didn't notice the change until you were halfway through the final page, so out of it you were. But the reactions from the mourning crowd clued you in. Your stoic dad choking down a chuckle.
You looked closely at the book and saw the words were written in your mom's neat handwriting.
You kept on reading, a smile on your face.
It wasn't the real ending. It was fanfic.
But just for a little while, seeing the words on the page helped you pretend a little longer.
99. Do you think Frank O'Hara was somewhere reading from Lunch Poems when some Black students were attacked for sitting at a Woolworth's lunch counter?
100. How about two actors play LeRoi Jones and Amiri Baraka discussing anti-Semitism in an episode of a less comedic season of poetic history set in the 1960s?
101. Is it possible to think of anything in the 1950s without thinking of the murder of Emmett Till in 1955?
102. Does Emmett Till or Rosa Parks trigger the Civil Rights Movement?
103. Did you know President John F. Kennedy was assassinated in the same year James Baldwin published The Fire Next Time?
104. What would constitute a perfect poem for you?
105. Who kept loving Sylvia Plath and Jimi Hendrix after high school, college, and middle age?
106. Who, in general, lives longer, painters or poets?
107. What is Time?
108. What are (your) ecopoetics?
109. Did you know Lucille Clifton went to Howard University with Amiri Baraka when he was known as LeRoi Jones?
110. If the poet representative of the last American century is, like the century, a mess of experiments, contradictions, and conviction, isn't Baraka a pretty good representative poet?
111. How about a vision of the American poet starring a mother (Lucille Clifton) who writes poems while raising her six children in Maryland in the 1970s?
112. Can you believe that Baraka's 1968 anthology of Afro-American writing, Black Fire, featured essays by John Henrik Clarke and Harold Cruse and poems by Sun Ra, David Henderson, A.B. Spellman, Sonia Sanchez, Henry Dumas, Jay Wright, Stanley Crouch, Lorenzo Thomas, and Victor Hernández Cruz, but did not include poems by Lucille Clifton, Gwendolyn Brooks, Robert Hayden, Bob Kaufman, Etheridge Knight, or Audre Lorde?
113. What do you think of Audre Lorde's "Power"?
114. Have you ever read "Those Winter Sundays" and wondered what happened to the mother in the poem?
115. Have you ever met anyone familiar with the poems of Allen Ginsberg's father, Louis Ginsberg?
116. If you write a poem like "Howl," do you really need to write anything else?
117. Is "Howl" an example of a poem that actually changed things?
118. When you write a poem, what does it teach you about the past?
119. Did you know Ginsberg reads the entirety of his poem "When the Light Appears" in the song "When the Light Appears Boy" on the album When I Was Born for the 7th Time, released by Cornershop in 1997, the year of Ginsberg's death?
120. Did you know that was his voice on "Ghetto Defendant" by The Clash ("Starved in metropolis / Hooked on necropolis / Addict of metropolis / Do the worm on acropolis / Slamdance the cosmopolis / Enlighten the populace...") ?
121. Do you sort of think of the Beat poets in the same way you think of the Grateful Dead, with members wandering around like several hairy, high Walt Whitmans?
122. Couldn't we debate whether Robert Lowell or Ginsberg is more confessional?
123. Is it true Bob Kaufman took a vow of silence to protest the Vietnam War?
124. Who brings more intimacy and toughness to poetry than Lucille Clifton?
125. What if every day you ask poetry of yourself?
—Terrance Hayes, from "Twentieth Century Examination Part V" (Watch Your Language: Visual and Literary Reflections on a Century of American Poetry, Penguin Books, 2023)
Vanity: A creative essay about Donna Tartt's quote (Prologue)
“I am nothing in my soul if not obsessive.” — Donna Tartt, The Secret History
Can a thing such as ‘irony,’ the mordant feeling of reality that dismantles existence, be able to coincide with human nature? For instance, the word ‘vanity,’ which refers to an excessive admiration for oneself, is derived from the Latin vanitas, which is from vanus meaning ‘emptiness.’ The paradoxical essence of its modern definition is certainly intriguing. How can someone be so full of himself but also empty as well? Merely thinking of that, I can say that I am no different.
What does Friedrich Nietzsche and Richard Papen have in common you ask? A morbid longing for the picturesque, perhaps
An essay analyzing The Secret History through Nietzsche's theories of the Apolline and the Dionysiac
"Here, in this supreme menace to the will, there approaches a redeeming, healing enchantress – art. She alone can turn these thoughts of repulsion at the horror and absurdity of existence into ideas compatible with life — Friedrich Nietzsche, The Birth of Tragedy"
If you are reading this essay because, like me, you feel something from casual interest to ravishing passion for literature – or even for art in general – then you, me, Nietzsche, and the Classics students of Hampden College perhaps share, in some level, a morbid longing for the picturesque. In this beautiful sentence I chose as epigraph, Nietzsche concludes a lengthy argument in The Birth of Tragedy stating that the only thing between humans and utter despair is art. Depending on the personal level of existential dread, then, it is possible to measure one’s regard for artistic subjects. Unfortunately, I consider myself quite desperate, but not so much as to make me a poet. Thank goodness.
People like Goethe, Keats, Baudelaire, etc. are in the highest degree of the art x despair scale, and we remember them because they “turned these thoughts of repulsion” into art, that is, “ideas compatible with life”. But they are the few who can. The rest get lost in delusions of grandeur or abjection, consumed by their obsessions. And that is the denouement of the main characters in Donna Tartt's The Secret History.
(Here is an essay I wrote about Edgar Allan Poe’s short story, “The Black Cat.” The essay delves into the seeming “mask of self delusion” that the narrator wears as he writes to exonerate himself of his crimes. To make it more interesting, I argue that the reader is obsolete to the story itself. The essay is really long, but I thought it was fun to write. Please let me know what you think of the topic—I am curious to hear others’ thoughts!)
The Mask of Self-Delusion
(Jack C. June, 2024)
Edgar Allan Poe’s narrator in his short story, “The Black Cat,” is delusional. No reader would bat an eye at this claim, as that is very plainly the case upon even an elementary reading of the work. And yet, the reader is not a crucial part of the reading process itself. On the contrary, Poe’s narrator does not require a reader at all. Instead, the narrator is writing solely for himself. The unreliable narrator in Poe’s short story attempts to exonerate himself—to exculpate himself—in a confessional manner. From the very first lines, the reader becomes aware that they are not expected to believe the narrator, and because of this, the reader is not necessary in the first place. Instead, it is the narrator writing his story for himself in an attempt to justify and rationalize his vile actions—trying to clear away his wicked sins by claiming possession and demonic intervention. The themes of acting on evil human impulse and attempting to vindicate oneself through delusion are highlighted in Poe’s short story—allowing the reader to see that the devil is not necessary to perform vicious deeds—humans alone are just as capable.
It is evident from the first sentence that the narrator is not writing for an audience but for himself. The sentence reads, “For the most wild, yet homely narrative which I am about to pen, I neither expect nor solicit belief” (1). The reader is informed a moment later that the narrator is writing from a prison cell, and will die tomorrow, but first he wants to, “…unburthen [his] soul” (1). The narrator does not think anyone will believe him, but that does not matter to him. The narrator aims to assuage himself of the events that took place to convince himself that his actions were not entirely his own. This delusion becomes evident by the language used further in the first paragraph. For example, the narrator writes, “Yet, mad am I not…”, referring to the murders as a, “…series of mere household events”, and even going as far as to proclaim the events as, “…nothing more than an ordinary succession of very natural causes and effects” (1). The language is obviously filled with delusion, but the primary factor to take into account is the attempt at rationalizing his demonic behavior. The language may even remind readers of a defense attorney trying to subdue a tragedy at hand. The key word Poe uses to show the narrator’s attempted justification of his crimes is to describe them as “natural.”
As previously mentioned, this story does not require a reader. Whether or not anyone reads or believes the narrator is not the narrator’s main concern. Instead, the narrator only tries to convince himself of his innocence through delusion and self-manipulation. Scholars Vicki Hester and Emily Segir make an important point when they write, “The story cannot save him from the noose. He has no progeny and mentions no living relatives who might care about his guilt or innocence, so the story serves little purpose for the writer, leaving readers to wonder who might be the intended audience and what might be the story’s point” (176). The narrator is writing for himself—heightening his delusion in an effort to conceal himself from his wicked human nature. Therefore, it is vital that Poe chose to write his story in the first person and not the third. Had Poe written the story in the third person, readers would have been able to quickly identify that the narrator is unreliable. Similarly, the structure of the short story would lose its significance of being told as a confession had it been written in the third person. Poe cleverly chose to write “The Black Cat” in the first person to add to the obviousness of the narrator’s delusion, the vanquishing of pathos any reader may have for the narrator, and the glimpse into the psychologically disturbed that would have been lost otherwise.
This particular reading of the narrator attempting to vindicate himself is not a new interpretation. Scholar James Gorgano concurs with the specific reading of attempted self-exculpation, writing, “The narrator cannot understand that his assault upon another person derives from his own moral sickness and unbalance” (181). By accusing demonic entities and the supernatural, the narrator can step away from the blame he so clearly deserves. Gargano continues, writing, “Consequently, if his self-analysis is accepted, his responsibility for his evil life vanishes” (181). The narrator attempts to detach himself from his crimes by writing his story in his prison cell.
Further in the story, the narrator refers to being overcome by a demonic nature. Yet, he does little to consider that his “demonic nature” is actually innately human. One central theme for Poe is human nature being wicked at its core. Poe does not maintain the naïve belief of humans as innately good, but quite the opposite. Here, the narrator tries to trick himself into believing just that—that he is innocent and was influenced by outside powers. When the narrator kills his cat, he writes, “The fury of a demon instantly possessed me” (2). The narrator removes himself from the equation by casting blame on an evil force notorious for such a wicked crime. Further in the story, as the reader kills his wife, one sentence reads, “Goaded, by the interference, into a rage more than demonical, I withdrew my arm from her grasp and buried the axe in her brain” (6). The narrator has surpassed a demon's rage and arrived at the malicious doorstep of the devil’s capacity for wrath. The narrator cannot fathom that his human nature is not innately good and kind but devilish.
Finally, The narrator loses his grip on his sanity throughout the progression of the story. A few key indicators of the narrator becoming delusional have to do significantly with his language choice. Hester and Segir point out that, after the narrator kills his wife, “He now speaks of his wife as ‘it,’ ‘the body,’ ‘the corpse.’ He does not call his wife’s dead body an accident but refers to the death as, ‘the hideous murder accomplished’” (189). And again, there is a significant moment when the narrator casts his own blame onto otherworldly forces when discussing perverseness. These sentences read, “Yet I am not more sure that my soul lives, than I am that perverseness is one of the primitive impulses of the human heart—one of the indivisible primary faculties, or sentiments, which give direction to the character of Man” (2). The narrator craves to be absolved so intensely that he has no problem blaming his murders on human nature and demons—anyone but himself. Hester and Segir cleverly elaborate that, “He also suggests that we, readers, would all do the same, given the same circumstances” (179). A moment after the narrator blames perverseness, he writes, “Who has not, a hundred times, found himself committing a vile or a silly action, for no other reason than because he knows he should not?” (2). He carries on, speaking of his soul attempting to vex itself, committing, “…wrong for wrong’s sake only” (3). The narrator will do anything but look himself in the eye and confess that he, and he alone, is an evil man. The narrator would prefer to believe that all humans have a devil inside of them that may possess them at any moment and force them to commit heinous acts. It is easier to claim that, ‘the devil made me do it,’ than it is to look at one’s own blood-covered hands and have an epiphany of one’s Mephistophelian nature.
In the last paragraph, the narrator ceaselessly denies responsibility for his guilt. He writes, “Upon its head, with red extended mouth and solitary eye of fire, sat the hideous beast whose craft had seduced me into murder, and whose informing voice had consigned me to the hangman. I had walled the monster up within the tomb!” (8). He claims that Pluto had seduced him to kill instead of admitting that he did it of his own accord. What’s more, is that the narrator claims Pluto consigned him to the hangman—his impending death scheduled for the following day. The last line carries significant weight as the narrator directs—towards the cat—the word that should be used to describe himself—monster. On a deeper metaphorical level, this line can be read as the last act of attempted self-exculpation. With one last line, the narrator seals the guilt of his crimes within the wall. Maybe he was not referring to the cat as the monster, but the guilt of his crimes. The narrator of Edgar Allan Poe’s short story, “The Black Cat,” was never possessed by the devil, although he would prefer to think so. The narrator feels that if he can confess and convince himself of his innocence, he becomes blameless. Often, the devil is considered to be the root of all evil, but people forget that the first murder was a human killing a human—Cain killing Abel.
Works Cited
Gargano, James W. “The Question of Poe’s Narrators.” College English, vol. 25, no. 3, 1963, pp. 177–81. JSTOR.
Hester, Vicki, and Emily Segir. “Edgar Allan Poe: ‘The Black Cat,’ and Current Forensic Psychology.” The Edgar Allan Poe Review, vol. 15, no. 2, 2014, pp. 175–93. JSTOR.
Poe, Edgar Allan. “The Black Cat.” English ###: PDF File. The Black Cat.pdf, June, 2024.
although humbert humbert is the kind of stereotypical image of a pedophile (does what he does because he’s attracted to children (though i mean unreliable narrator he could be lying)), lolita is SUCH a good text to childhood studies with. like humbert retains power over delores by telling her that he is her only guardian, and that escaping her would mean winding up as a ward of the state where she will be treated even worse. he uses the power he has over her and specifically draws attention to the fact that he has so much power over her because society leaves her completely powerless; were she to go to the police about him, she wouldn’t be able to choose to take care of herself or choose who gains ownership over her in the future, so she might as well stay with the guy who rapes her but at least buys her things
the tragedy of her ending, then, in part is the fact that the only person she could manage to go to for help is someone who will also sexually exploit her, but (at least she believes) less than humbert will. her school notices that she is struggling, but the only recourse they have or even seem interested in is informing the guardian who is causing the abuse, a very common issue for abused children in schools. as much as conservatives hand wring about schools taking over their parental rights, they really have nothing to fear even now into the modern day, as only the most blatant and obvious child abuse can be addressed without involving parents; every other action schools have available to them is to consult the child’s owner, their parent(s), first and foremost. nobody in a child’s life, as lolita reflects, is able to materially aid a child without the parents’ permission or else they are breaking the law. as such, delores’s only chance for escape was to go with a man fine with breaking the law, and that wound up being another pedophile.
the criticism of systems of power in lolita is criminally underdiscussed, but a lot of that is also because criticisms of systems is often glossed over in most discussions of csa. people are somewhat aware that pedophiles, like other rapists, are more interested in power than attraction, but the imbalance of power between child and adult is fully naturalized. while obviously some aspects of that are innate (the physical difference, for example), there is also plenty about that difference in power which is socially and legally constructed, ESPECIALLY between a child and their legal guardian, who retains ownership over them even above the child’s own autonomy
You guys rlly don't realise how much knowledge is still not committed to the internet. I find books all the time with stuff that is impossible to find through a search engine- most people do not put their magnum opus research online for free and the more niche a skill is the less likely you are to have people who will leak those books online. (Nevermind all the books written prior to the internet that have knowledge that is not considered "relevant" enough to digitise).
Whenever people say that we r growing up with all the world's knowledge at our fingertips...it's not necessarily true. Is the amount of knowledge online potentially infinite? Yes. Is it all knowledge? No. You will be surprised at the niche things you can discover at a local archive or library.
James Baldwin and the Annihilation of Gender by Anansi's Library - stunning essay about gender, sexuality, and Blackness in the works of James Baldwin, and Moonlight (2016).
astronomy has a colonialism problem by Dr. Fatima - Libyan-American and former physicist Dr Fatima discusses the links between colonialism, scientific academia, and the Palestinian liberation movement.
Saltburn: The Tumblr-ification of Cinema by Broey Deschanel - fun essay on how Saltburn is a cheap rip-off of The Untalented Mr Ripley and refuses to admit it, and how such pastiche is a growing problem.
How Shirley Jackson exposed the horror of home life by Books n Cats
This Video Isn't Just About Taylor Swift. It's About You. by Alexander Avilla - a juggernaut of an essay about how so much of Taylor Swift's success is just about the weaponisation of whiteness in marketing.
Time Travelling While Black by Aishyo - comparative essay about media that portrays Black characters who time travel.
Why We Can’t Build Better Cities by Philosophy Tube - Abigail Thorn investigates the ideological links between gentrification and the 15-minute-city conspiracy theory.
Why Sci-fi Can't Fix Its White Savior Problem by Princess Weekes - an essay about how white supremacy and white feminism is baked into science fiction.
Eminem and the White Rapper Problem by F.D Signifier - a retrospective on Eminem's impact on rap, for better and worse.
Why YouTubers Hold Microphones Now by Tom Nicholas - a fascinating piece about how the slow corporatisation of YouTibe has impacted content creators' aesthetics over time, and how this is also a wider trend on the internet.
I think, during my last moments, decades from now, when the sun has gotten hotter and the Earth has started melting like ice cream left out for too long, I will close my eyes and dream of you. I think, even then, after robots have grown to mimic the sound of your voice and after acting has gone out of perpetual style, I will plug in a USB of the old episodes I saved - just to watch you again. And I think, after the air becomes uninhabitable and the trees turn purple and the world goes black, I will still remember the way Prometheus put the oceans into your eyes. Surely, one day, you will know of all the ways in which I love you; but right now you’re none the wiser. Let me rectify that, if I am able. Let me tell you, plainly, that I love you. And let me tell you, unplainly, that I will love you no matter what.
No matter the distance. Or the time. Or the circumstances that get in the way. No matter the outcome of all this and no matter whatever anticlimax that may come about. I will love you no matter what the future holds - and if it doesn’t hold anything, and will instead crumble to the ground grasping for a straw or a blade of grass; well I will love you then too.
And I will love you no matter the popularity you gain, and no matter the amount of drama you get pulled into. And I will love you even if the drama finds you - or even if you cause it yourself.
I will love you if the media stays on your side or shifts toward a different opinion. And I will love you even if your career crumbles because of it or if it instead fades into a quiet thing of the past. I will love you if you give up acting. And if you take up painting. Or writing. Or designing your own clothing. And I will love you even if you decide to do none of that and would prefer to spend the rest of your life in a quiet cottage alone. Or with him.
And I will love you if you marry him. I will love you if you have a beautiful big wedding or a beautiful small wedding and I will love you if your dress is the traditional white- or if you step out of the box and wear some other creative color. And I will love you if you don’t wear a dress at all. I will love you if you wear a suit instead and I will love you if the two of you match and I will love you if you do none of that and wear no dress and no suit and decide never to marry him at all. I will love you if you marry someone else instead. I will love you if you have a change of heart. I will love you if you have children with either of whoever. And I will love you if you choose to adopt. And I will love you if you don’t want marriage and if you don’t want children and if you don’t want to adopt and if you’d rather die beside friends, family, and a menagerie of pets. I will love you if you don’t really like cats. And I will love you even if you can’t appreciate the acquired scent of a ferret.
And I will love you even though we are different. And I will love you because of the differences. And I will love you despite the differences. And despite the rifts said differences may cause between us. I will love you if there never is an ‘us’. I will love you if there never comes to be more than this. I will love you even though I am young. I will love you even though you are older. I will love you even though it is impossible to say so. And I will love you despite the impossibility of it all. And I will love you despite the recklessness of it all. And I will love you despite the pain. And the ache. And the missing. And I will love you even if I must miss you for the rest of my life. And if somehow I know you one day, then I will love you then too. I will love you even if your laugh is not as loud and boisterous as it seems. And I will love you if you’re a quiet person at heart. And I will love you if you can’t stand silence and I will love you if you can’t stand noise. And I will love you if you talk to me forever. And I will love you if we never exchange a single word.
I will love you if I never meet you. And if I never know you. And I will love you if you never meet or know me either. And I will love you if we meet all the time and see each other every Friday. I will love you until Friday isn’t a word anymore, and until the universe itself resets, and until the Andromeda and Milky Way galaxies collide. I’ll love you past that, as well. Until we’re all swallowed by a black hole or by the sun’s implosion. I will love you through the heat of sweltering days and through the chill of winter’s deep-freeze. I will love you when the weather is nice, and when everyone is kind to each other, and I will love you if Summer is your favorite season and if you can’t stand the cold that Autumn brings. I will love you if Spring spells out your name. And I will love you if you hate the sound of rain and can’t help but flinch when lightning strikes.
I will love you through those storms. And through those evenings. And those days. And I will love you during every minute, and every second, and every millisecond that spans between the minutes and every milli-minute that spans between the hours. I will love you until all such hours melt into years and eventually into decades, and past the point of centuries.
And I will love you if you’re in Japan. Or Milan. Or even South Africa. And I will love you if you wear silk. Or velvet. Or satin. Or even some odd combination of cotton and tulle. And I will love you if you never wear designer clothing ever again - and if you never step foot on another runway - and if you decide to dedicate the rest of your life to sweatpants and hoodies.
And if somehow I die before you, before all of that, then I will love you from beyond the grave. I will love you from beyond the rot. And beyond the veil of death. I will love you no matter where I am; behind silver gates or behind fire and eternal damnation. I will love you even if I am set aflame, and if you greet the clouds of the silver city after your own death. I will love you if you go first and if I stay alive and I will love you so hard then that you will consume me entirely.
I will love you even after all of that as well.
And if the cure for death is somehow found, and we all get to live forever, I will love you until Armageddon takes us away. I will love you into my thirties and I will love you into old age. I will love you if I lose it all and I will love you if I gain everything I’ve ever wanted.
I will love you if I never grow out of this phase, and I will love you if I surpass my own expectations- as high as they are. And I will love you if you don’t do the same, and if you shrivel up instead, and become a hollow shell of yourself. I will love you if life turns sour and if the days get gloomy and if the nights get lonely and all you can do is cry. I will love you while you cry. I will love you while you laugh. I will love you while you scream and while you shout and I will love you while you mourn and grieve and explode in joy. I will love you if you never feel joy again. And I will love you if you feel joy every moment of every day. I will love you even if you find that that doesn’t feel fulfilling enough, and if you start yearning for sadness again. And I will love you through that sadness.
And I will love you through the madness. And the horror. And the terror of the world. And I will love you through the poisoning of the oceans and through the deforestation of Earth. And I will love you despite the fact that it’s all burning. And despite the fact that nothing matters. And if it turns out that that’s wrong, and that everything does matter in the end, then I will love you at the end. And the beginning. And the middle. And the prologue. And the epilogue. And I will love you at the table of contents and the glossary and even at the works cited.
For you, I'd stare straight into the endless black void of the Unseen Deathless One's eyes and crush the seeds between my molars: once, twice, thrice.
For you, I'd let the sweet tart juice of the pomegranate slide down my throat and trickle down my chin; I'd let it stain me inside and out— the way you have stained me inside and out with your hands and tongue and words, with your love.
My breath is yours to take away, my lips are yours to kiss, as marked by that red, red juice that bursts from the seeds of Death's realm and runs down my throat and coats my lips to trickle down to my chin.
In Life and in Death I am yours, yours, yours.
Yours to do with as you please.
Ask for my love, and I will lay kisses on your lips and your cheeks and your eyelids and your forehead with those same stained lips (you are mine just as much as I am yours). Ask for my loyalty, and I will stand with you, sword raised and your name echoing in my throat like a warcry (people call for their god and I call for mine). Ask for my heart, and I shall rip it out of my ribcage with my bare hands and lay it at your feet (you could ask to be the ruler of the gods and I would find a way).
My love is yours, my loyalty is yours, my heart is yours.
Let the juice of the cursed fruit mark me, let the world see and know, let the colour sink into my skin and flesh and stay there for eternity, till even the Deathless Ones are but a distant memory swallowed up by the passage of time. Let the juice of the cursed fruit claim me in your name.
In Life and in Death, I am yours, yours, yours.
Yours to do with as you please.
.
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