as requested: write abt matt and zenobia to "sorry about the blood in your mouth. i wish it was mine"
richard siken. | any excuse to ruin my life
@modernprophetic
THE FIRST TIME she calls him martyr is the only time no one makes it sound like his body is a warning siren. She says it like he shouldn’t say, what, what do you mean? ( He’s always known what they meant, until now. ) She says it like, that’s your name, darling, don’t you remember?
It’s not a question of whether he accepts this judgment or not. You don’t argue with a woman like that, not before, and not Afterward, either. Everything that leaves her mouth sounds like prophecy. He knows he shouldn’t, but he keeps wondering if the Word of God tastes like they say: sweet on your tongue and bitter in the pit of your stomach.
Early, when the floorboards are cold under his soles, and when birdsong is still held at a distance, he crawls over the threshold. She’s already awake — quiet, not soundless, as she kneels beside him. Her hand finds the curve of his bowed neck, and at first he doesn’t understand.
She kisses the wound clean, but clean means raw; she has no patience for preserving his hurts the way he would. What cry can he raise? No, he did not expect a communion between them to mean blood in her teeth, bitter with salt and somehow sweet. But now he remembers why he can’t argue with her. She only tells the truth. ( He inhales, exhales: this is your name, my love, THIS IS YOUR NAME. )
