A Kitsune

-ˋˏ ༻✿༺ ˎˊ- Niccolò-Chérie Prophet and poet 🐚⚡️

[n-s-mercury]

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Where there is a world past my extinction, visions of struggle and prophecy propaganda, a species anew and answering, drenched in rot and poison, new life I apologise.

[n-s-mercury]

There’s war on the TV screen and genocide glaring through the phone, microplastics in the water and smoke filling the sky. Looking out the tall glass windows, through the filters and sheen, into the open night, a streetlamp global— ‘We’re putting the stars to bed’

[n-s-mercury]

Tis I, the hare among the rabbits. We were not built for the same conditions but I am here anyway. Why

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The hurt of being seen as ‘broken’ cuts worse than the fall, glueing all my sharp edges together again—sanding them down until I don’t fit, and people are still nervous to hold. I want to be more than what was ruined, is that too heavy an ask?

[n-s-mercury]

I fear my mother. Green in the face and pink in the shoe, hate for lace and a tropical tan she faked. Her hair a faux blonde, an expense she gladly pays, porcelain nails matching beige, smile lines fade. My bedroom is pink, lace filled and twee, my hair is bleached to death and all my nails are filed and painted. I tan green in the morning sun and ache every evening. I fear my mother, for she can be cruel; I fear my mother for she and I parallel. Our DNA intertwined, just as many things we share. I fear I am my mother.

[n-s-mercury]

It sucks to say I’d do it again, jumping from above to uneven concrete, from intermediate trees to frail roots. Stuck in place like the hands of a broken watch, twelve o’ clock, waiting for the time to pass me by—who knew hurt was a way for familial comfort? Spraining and bruising to tendons of my heels and arch, ankles strained to the maximum; my mother called me ‘a dick’—out of my own mental sickness. I’d jump again, the climb and fall, the hit of earth echoing up my legs like a drug addict, the concerned caress of caregiver to scarring on my achilles. It sucks to say I’d do it again.

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One day, we will be an ancient story—one of tragedy and love. We will be myth and legend, faux lore to convey meanings of human nature; this world shan’t ever wonder of our devotion, not as the story stays true. As we live, won’t you hold me closer? Your earth will ground us true, the fire in my lungs will warm us: together, we shall remain statue. Porcelain may capture our figures, clay moulded to our shape in passion, yet only song could pass down our loving; I sing to you!

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Some days, I lay with my ear to the earth, I hear her hearts steady beat, and I pretend it’s yours. I don’t think I can ever stop missing you, in some way, I hope I never do. I’ll love you as you rot, as I have for the last eight years—I’m now double your age in years; and you weren’t even ten.

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Cover me in plaster and let the new clays set, merge with me in our new porcelline prison, we may be one in sculpture but two in story, pathways linking in the crossroads; I’ll hold you in foreverness; our own dying art.

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Everything kinda hurts, everything’s kinda on fire, but all my trust is placed in needle and thread—only when this is done, I may lay in ache.

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Long blonde curls unfurled and wooden, dolly high on the self without a step to reach—Momma, can you hear me? Will it matter once my silence remains? I never decided to live this life—I had too much pride.

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It could be because I am simply impure, or maybe crude and cruel and mean; but nonetheless, I just don’t love you. I probably never will, and possibly never did, and I’m sorry I couldn’t. I just couldn’t, Lover, but I’ll tell you this—I meant when I said “I love you so much” and you know deep down that you still do. Tell your mother I said ‘hello’ and goodbye!