#*心

[mwxyixing]

"Remember your true self."

i. 

flowers are destined for a shortened life, the only destiny is to maintain its beauty and attract pollinators. flowers, for the most part, are gentle. you thumb over the purple petals. it is no buttercup. digestion doesn’t cause nausea ; harmless. you twirl it once in your fingers before it falls. dust the dirt off your pants before you smile and say: 

“i won’t forget.” 

he wants the venom to run in your veins, a touch to bring about skin irritation, but a flower’s nature is not so easily altered. you won’t give in so easily. 

ii. 

to save a life you must harm a life - law of equivalent exchange or something. or maybe it is just a sadist’s terms. either way the damage is done. you watch your victim clutch his chest and you know what you’ve done. it was aconite coated, beginning to heal  when you sported it but the choice to force it upon another human being. 

poison is active, cardiac irregularities are bound to set in. arrow poison you think you hear his sharp laughter and his pleased tone. 

the blade is still strapped to your leg. the victim falls. you dwell not upon the liberation when the wound was lifted from your skin nor upon how you could have easily taken it back. you remind yourself that this was to save a friend but doctors shouldn’t have such distinctions ( you are no longer one anyways ). 

memories serve as reminders, forgive me becomes a mantra, i won’t do it again becomes a promise. but blights begin with a pathogen and chlorosis is about to set in. 

iii. 

he’s coughing you note out of boredom, crouched by his side as you observe. people should be more merciful when dealing with death. isn’t a fatal blow better than a dragged out death? but all opinions are subjective. 

“are you going to finish me off?” he asks between labored breaths and you smile, palms open as if to appease him. 

“i can heal, but what can you do for me?” almost disregarding what he has to say. there’s a laugh or maybe another cough, not that you care enough to distinguish. this is taking way too long. “wolfsbane,” you explain as you wave the dagger back and forth, “it won’t be pretty.” 

and who are you to blame when his powers aren’t what you are looking for. you only gave him the merciful death he deserved. 

there’s a voice in your head that tells you to remember your true self. it is a very nice voice. pretty even. you think you can visualize soft lips and raven hair but it disappears as soon as it comes. 

“true self?” you ask echo when you stare down into the pool of water. “i don’t remember what i look like anymore.” you think you smile but you can’t feel it. there is no cure for a blight like this.

[mwxyixing]

親愛的（這不是愛情）

有一個人能去愛 多珍貴

they say memory are just constructs and i suppose it is true. has to be. because despite how desperately i crane my neck, i can’t see past the limbs — i can’t remember anything spare for moments and i’m drowning.

there are hands — strong, warm — against my spine, sliding past the scapula and the elbow to straighten arms and correct posture. i smile, the mirror captures it. i don’t know if you do. i can’t see past your neck. doesn’t matter. what matters is how the practice room was void of music and the rate of my heart was audible enough that it probably served as the audio track we danced to. 

fingers — long and thin — beautiful, i remember remarking. or maybe i kept it to myself. we were still young or rather what we had between us was still young ; barely able to be transplanted, barely able to give it a name. but my hand was in yours and you tugged me along. i remember you laughing. i can’t remember what it sounds like, can’t even describe the quality of your voice. all i remember is how it sent shivers down my spine. look, there it is: goosebumps on my skin and the second of silence before i throw my head back and laugh to harmonize with yours. if this isn’t love i don’t know what is. 

there was latte froth on your lips and i suddenly forgot what we were talking about. for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. i know i’m using it in the wrong context but forgive me because it was only natural i wiped it away for you… with my thumb… licking it clean. i was curious about your coffee and how it tasted in comparison to my tea. ( the fact that i dislike coffee is not a factor in this conversation ) there were people around us. your eyes widened by a fraction more than i expected it would. if it was somewhere else perhaps i would have renacted a scene from a drama. but this action, in of itself, was daring enough. then you smiled and i forgot to fret. i wish you weren’t sitting under direct sunlight. it eclipses your face and i can’t see anything past the curve of your lips. 

two bicycles leaning against a tree in the park and the owners sprawled out on the grass nearby with fingers almost interlocked ; earphones split between two individuals on a bus, a whispered conversation with foreheads unnecessarily close and a thumb that selects the next song both of them love ; thudding bass that livens the practice room and moves so synchronized it has one wondering if their breaths were as well ( they are ) ; fingers pliant as the packet of ice is pressed against skin, eyes watching for contortions in the other’s expression and worry is worn on the heart ; two elongated shadows, walking during the golden hours of the evening, hand in hand ; lazy sunday mornings and molten gold spilling forth over milky skin marred by red little bruises and lips almost smug as they whisper good morning ; shaving cream ; dental hygiene ; matching mugs ; two pairs of slippers by the door ; copied keys ; memorized passwords ; an umbrella sheltering two ; cooking experiments ; midnight drinking ; borrowing leotards and then sneakers ; fixing ties ; back massages ; bouquets after performances ; shared popcorn ; new years fireworks ; healing sprains ; carrying pain 

yellowed, scattered ; frenzied as i try to pick them up.

yet as i suffer under the weight of these memories what escapes is you — your name, your face, i can’t even remember your gender. not that it matters but there’s nothing, nothing at all except the word you or the dancer. 

but perhaps it is better this way. i would be less inclined to hold onto what could never be — try to find a way to escape and forget how to survive or to be so desperate to return to your side that i lose myself in the process. instead, i am allowed to love — to attribute these emotions to other humans, to love more in your place. 

perhaps it is fortunate that you are nothing but a concept — like the dance we both know and love. or rather, you are the embodiment of dance itself. at least, in this way, it is more than just another memory. at least, if it remains like this, i’ll be eternally in love. albeit in a different way than you are used to but the quality is still the same.

i’m trying to love you in a way i understand. please forgive me. but isn’t having someone to love something precious in of itself? it is, after all, what makes us human.

[mwxyixing]

beginning of the end

deafening — the lack of human conversation, whispers in the hall, discussions over your body as if you didn’t understand a word they said. ( you did. perhaps in another life you would be in their shoes experimenting upon your kind. ) instead, you were now engulfed by rustling leaves and cicadas in the summer heat. there’s a bag near your foot where you began to rummage through its contents, glancing over your shoulder occasionally just in case. friend or foe is always a coin toss and you would like to last longer than a day.

a blanket, water bottles, dried packages of food, and a small first aid kit. a smile finds its way to your lips. he’s still the same as ever — that sadistic bastard — wanting individuals to last long enough to pay his investment back in terms of entertainment. and you are just one of them.

fingers scrape the bottom of the bag to double check that you’ve accounted for everything only to hit a small pouch. upon opening, it reveals itself to be a small surgical kit — two types of scalpels, four types of scissors, two types of forceps, and one probe.

you don’t recall when your fingers start shaking but the surgery pack drops back into the bag. the overwhelming scent of antiseptics; glazed eyes of the patient before you; bright lights and a copper taste; murderer, murderer, murderer they chant; and your name stitched on your chest exudes nothing but shame.

a folded sheet of paper that accompanies the kit reads:

i hope this will be of use to you, my star.

he’s mocking you, probably laughing at the emotional peaks the microchip documents.

you once argued that your name was so hard to learn to write and mother said that the beauty of it lied in how different words sound the same. [ 興 and 心 (heart) and 星 (star) ]

pick a letter, choose a name:

the fault, dear brutus, lies not in the stars but in ourselves, that we are underlings.

pick a name, choose it fast.

aster (n.) greek for star ( from latin: the suffix indicates imperfect resemblance )