you're dying of thirst so we feast on each other, the seas are still a violent mother.
I am not the only one who has changed.
Another man may mistake the difference for one of appearance. The paint she wears, freshly done, strikes me as warlike and austere. The artistry, although there, does not seem beautiful to me; but brutal. That brutality reflects in her expression; in the emptiness of her eyes where, before, I had sworn they were filled with passion.
Perhaps I am only hoping to see a reflection of my empty self but, when I wait for her to turn, my heart thunderous in my chest… I swear I know what she is going to say, I can feel it—
Is it you, or is it I?
Her voice belongs here, unholy and holy all at once. The voice of a goddess, of an immortal. The only thing I can smell is the blood and the warmth of her over the saltwater of me.
A part of me wants to smile, but cannot. The gruesomeness of my own teeth horrifies me. “Both,” I answer, as she descends the dais. Her axe becomes a pinwheel; catching the dim light of the room. The last time I had been here, Damascus had broken the stained glass window that stains us in fragmented shades of violet and red and blue.
“What comes next in that story?” I ask. But as she steps down the dais, I ascend it. I stare at the empty throne and listen for the quake of the horrific palace, for the monsters and the darkness within.
I only hear our breathing.
“I don’t want it,” I say. “Do you?”
And I am staring at the polished brass surface of the throne. I am staring at my own reflection, the elegant curve of my horns, the scar over my eye, the newly minted necklace of scars at my throat. I am a different man; I know no throne would ever be enough to fill what I am.
“Two monsters meet on a throne…” I repeat—
And then, with sudden and intense motion, I raise to slam my hooves into the center of the throne’s back. Into the middle of my eyes. Into my own reflection. The brass does not shatter, but the din resounds and resounds and resounds.
The silence, at least, is gone.
Another man may mistake the difference for one of appearance. The paint she wears, freshly done, strikes me as warlike and austere. The artistry, although there, does not seem beautiful to me; but brutal. That brutality reflects in her expression; in the emptiness of her eyes where, before, I had sworn they were filled with passion.
Perhaps I am only hoping to see a reflection of my empty self but, when I wait for her to turn, my heart thunderous in my chest… I swear I know what she is going to say, I can feel it—
Is it you, or is it I?
Her voice belongs here, unholy and holy all at once. The voice of a goddess, of an immortal. The only thing I can smell is the blood and the warmth of her over the saltwater of me.
A part of me wants to smile, but cannot. The gruesomeness of my own teeth horrifies me. “Both,” I answer, as she descends the dais. Her axe becomes a pinwheel; catching the dim light of the room. The last time I had been here, Damascus had broken the stained glass window that stains us in fragmented shades of violet and red and blue.
“What comes next in that story?” I ask. But as she steps down the dais, I ascend it. I stare at the empty throne and listen for the quake of the horrific palace, for the monsters and the darkness within.
I only hear our breathing.
“I don’t want it,” I say. “Do you?”
And I am staring at the polished brass surface of the throne. I am staring at my own reflection, the elegant curve of my horns, the scar over my eye, the newly minted necklace of scars at my throat. I am a different man; I know no throne would ever be enough to fill what I am.
“Two monsters meet on a throne…” I repeat—
And then, with sudden and intense motion, I raise to slam my hooves into the center of the throne’s back. Into the middle of my eyes. Into my own reflection. The brass does not shatter, but the din resounds and resounds and resounds.
The silence, at least, is gone.
