YOU WILL REGRET THIS. // @martyredlight
gently, playfully, flicks his nose !
i. god knows and knew and will know it as a difficult time to be naive ; since there were so many things we still had left to betray. we haven’t even ambitiously set the treachery in motion yet, while we tarried in the glow of summer-blue, whereas heaven kissed sea & sea kissed heaven throughout their temporary marriage, seeping relentlessly o’er us. we showered in that counterfeit man-made glory, high on luster, unassuming and still more innocent than, what priests would call, profane.
( ah — the innocence was what would be tainted the quickest, the easiest, enchanted into the foulest thing. ought we not to stay pure ? but no child could be so, if its raw beginnings introduced always the craving, always the shriek for air, disturbed by the dazzling light of the world. the eyes burned, the maw cried. innocence began with a selfish scream of demands for something consumable, as much as the world hankered to spiritually, physically and chemically consume. then it would love to taste its own sweet-iron in the vital red. so too, would it love the red of wild-berries / taste one-self as what you had been familiar with first, afterwards taste the outside things that carried all the poisons. they did warn you about them, sure, but you did not listen. you see, innocence be no ideal, but a phase of egoism which built its own altars ‘pon it for devoted tributes to be spilled. it frequently so begged to be torn apart. )
but back then, on this good sunday, a very guileless one at that, no chance for him be given to recoil from the affection in the noon-illuminated, lonesome library. boyhood a half-synthesis, the silence birthed a plague of boredom in the midst of it. it were only two sly youths and the audience of literature, rows and rows of books and study-papers, on which he, like an obsessed lunatic, would have worked on, if it wasn’t for a mischievous trickster’s interruption that came with no call of his name, but a cheeky touch, followed by an empty complaint : “ aw, heey —- “ and a jester threat, a joyous rivalry — “ oh, you just wait ! ”
wait for his asperity, it shall be as shrill as it could kill. & we practiced betrayal tenderly like the petal-picking off a meadow flower. no one minded it, no one placed blame on the violent rending of a defenseless forget-me-not, in spite of it being in the fashion of vultures picking meat from spines. oh darling, we truly and tragically had an affair with this ignorance toward the savagery we were damned to do. not aware, that our swords shall be pointed against one another : aimed to shove them into our chests, to tear out our hearts, and instead of eating to let them crawl back out again, we would end by throwing away ourselves. our magic’d brand and scar us, go so far as to harm for the holiest of sacrifices in the utmost sacred of rites.
ii. and, my dearest caged boy, i’d known t’was an endeavor to be philia-wounded and moon-struck ; since there were so many things we still had left to say. no-one could claim it as something new --- the act of swallowing down the words that may mistranslate what was originally meant. how often could one pronounce love until it decomposed into a cluster of vague heartlessness and stockholm-syndrome ? or how often could one vocalize ‘ i adore you ‘ until it lost its meaning and withered and shriveled / until the impurity hexed us and we’d adore in all the wrong ways ? ( the haunt-ways, the blood-stained-ways, the have to pull my lover out of the lake-ways )
and you — how wayward would you let yourself lead, when you could not reject the very hand that hauled ? told yourself as long as t’was warm, it would be good enough. as long as you could kiss his knuckles whenever they bled via the destruction of a mirror he could no longer look into, few years from now / as long as you could clean the cuts and nurse them again. rip open and nurse, rip open and nurse / as long as this love was so close to something revolting but still, still meant lips could trail o’er some skin, breathe life back into him, then it would be good enough. no, we did not know we couldn’t possibly be amputees, the dependence so strong, rotting more than the corporeal flesh. my darling little saint, say, how could we suspect this meekness and this ardor shall spoil us, and be never done & never finished ? how the naivety claimed us here and let us not go farther until we were ready ? ( we will never be, to let go of this soon to come untidiness in the imagery of bruises. )
but back then, on this good sunday, we both could not understand how unattainably jocular we were. took the laughter for granted. for something perpetual, whether nothing’d been more short-lived than that. mercury was not gold here, at this time when the moon did not hold your head into salt-water. rawly, this mercury knew not better when his both palms cupped this fine face of yours, only to break that friendly savety-illusion. pinched the cheeks without pressing too much of an ache into your delicate pallor, as simply a gentle revenge. such an unsuspecting sanctity’s been filled with bird-songs in this church, constructed of old children-bones for its groundwork and their honorable / ignominious blood for the gold-white wall color. the vultures of yore, have been industrious, indeed.
“ you had it comin’ “ said he nonchalantly with an ephemeral loveliness, as he laughed, and he laughed, and he laughed ! as of now, he was here, and he was here to be loving, and he was here to be sweet. enjoy it as long as it lasted. ( he would laugh repeatedly, each time a bit more viciously with a little less mirth and a little less care, until he's filled with his own lake-cold. soon enough after two foolish boys grew to men, one corrupt by his holy parents / the other corrupt by his own malice, they’d revel in the shards of that broken mirror. then your judas shall be bound to say : ‘ you ignore the warnings, over and over ; but unsurprisingly, you just like to provoke several evils to get under your skin, don’t you ? it keeps you dreaming. ‘ )
iii. aye, your god had known ; there were so many things we still had left to betray. and they accounted for none of the self-inflicted broken record, shaped as luminescent droplets and coal-dark smoke. we were irresponsible and ruthless and flighty. we shan’t ever cease to be.
