If you must die, sweetheart
die knowing your life was my life’s best part
die knowing your life was my life’s best part
”You are a fool.”
The words are spat before you even realize they have even left your lips, full of burning vitriol, indignant rage, and spiteful condemnation. Your body quakes, visibly, from where you stand within the gathered crowd, dual-toned eyes narrowed in a glare so cold, so vicious, you are certain you will freeze where you stand.
”You claim to be ‘king’ twice over,” you continue bitingly, teeth bared and lips flecked with spittle in your fury, shocked into a stupor at your own words and the fact that they continue to pour like a dam breaking, unrelenting and impossible to cease now that the current has stolen your tongue and voice, “And yet you have little to show for it. Solterra has been my home for years. I know you. I know of you, and how you disappeared from Solterra. You preach your fealty to a kingdom you abandoned, just like the others.”
Rage burns anew within your veins, and oh, but this is a feeling so intimately familiar to you, like breathing. Like breaking. Your body heaves, the blues of your sides frothed with sweat from strain, the muscles in your legs and body twitching, shifting, in your sickness.
You have been sick for a long time, since returning from your imprisonment. And here you are, still ill, still dying, and looking into the face of the man who overthrew your absent beloved.
No. He has never, ever been yours. He had used you, just like everyone else, spouting kind words and batting pale lashes over eyes of endless starscapes to manipulate, to break, to dominate. Adonai has never been yours, and yet you are still not strong enough to hate him for it. When you had curled dying in a wretched heap, bloodied and ragged, his name had been salvation on your lips… And now he is just another thing that has left you behind, broken and forgotten, a toy in the hands of a creature far too old for such games.
Rot in hell, you want to scream at this so-called King, this usurper who will fail just like all of the others before him, but the dam has closed, abandoning you now, perhaps when you needed it the most. Burn on the pyre. Drown in the ocean. Sink beneath the sands. Choke on your hypocrisies.
You heave, body quaking, feverish and weak, and wish desperately that you were not alone here. Solitude was your prison, a shackle you could not break from, and you are scared… But you spit vitriol and hate, condemning others, a wild and uncontrollable thing, because you are even more afraid of letting others close. So, you fear, and hate, and plead, and search frantically for anyone who will listen, all while damning others and yourself into oblivion.
One, you breathe to yourself, counting, repetition, remembering the only thing that calmed you in a cold, stone prison cell to the south, Two, three, four, five…
You count. And breathe. And it calms your racing heart, slows the heave of your chest, as you come apart in a very occupied, public space, for everyone to see your failings and hate you for them.
One, two, three, four, five…
The grin that pulls up your dark lips is a terrified, wretched thing. It seems out of place amidst the madness. Or, perhaps, right at home? You are no longer sure. Long gone was the sweet boy who played harp and sang songs and wrote poems beside the form of his scholarly father and the pale, sickly frame of his prince. That boy is dead and gone, rotting in a cell to the south, wretched and forgotten.
“When your throne crumbles, and your crown becomes too heavy, let me be the first to say ‘I told you so.’”
One, two, three, four, five…
The words are spat before you even realize they have even left your lips, full of burning vitriol, indignant rage, and spiteful condemnation. Your body quakes, visibly, from where you stand within the gathered crowd, dual-toned eyes narrowed in a glare so cold, so vicious, you are certain you will freeze where you stand.
”You claim to be ‘king’ twice over,” you continue bitingly, teeth bared and lips flecked with spittle in your fury, shocked into a stupor at your own words and the fact that they continue to pour like a dam breaking, unrelenting and impossible to cease now that the current has stolen your tongue and voice, “And yet you have little to show for it. Solterra has been my home for years. I know you. I know of you, and how you disappeared from Solterra. You preach your fealty to a kingdom you abandoned, just like the others.”
Rage burns anew within your veins, and oh, but this is a feeling so intimately familiar to you, like breathing. Like breaking. Your body heaves, the blues of your sides frothed with sweat from strain, the muscles in your legs and body twitching, shifting, in your sickness.
You have been sick for a long time, since returning from your imprisonment. And here you are, still ill, still dying, and looking into the face of the man who overthrew your absent beloved.
No. He has never, ever been yours. He had used you, just like everyone else, spouting kind words and batting pale lashes over eyes of endless starscapes to manipulate, to break, to dominate. Adonai has never been yours, and yet you are still not strong enough to hate him for it. When you had curled dying in a wretched heap, bloodied and ragged, his name had been salvation on your lips… And now he is just another thing that has left you behind, broken and forgotten, a toy in the hands of a creature far too old for such games.
Rot in hell, you want to scream at this so-called King, this usurper who will fail just like all of the others before him, but the dam has closed, abandoning you now, perhaps when you needed it the most. Burn on the pyre. Drown in the ocean. Sink beneath the sands. Choke on your hypocrisies.
You heave, body quaking, feverish and weak, and wish desperately that you were not alone here. Solitude was your prison, a shackle you could not break from, and you are scared… But you spit vitriol and hate, condemning others, a wild and uncontrollable thing, because you are even more afraid of letting others close. So, you fear, and hate, and plead, and search frantically for anyone who will listen, all while damning others and yourself into oblivion.
One, you breathe to yourself, counting, repetition, remembering the only thing that calmed you in a cold, stone prison cell to the south, Two, three, four, five…
You count. And breathe. And it calms your racing heart, slows the heave of your chest, as you come apart in a very occupied, public space, for everyone to see your failings and hate you for them.
One, two, three, four, five…
The grin that pulls up your dark lips is a terrified, wretched thing. It seems out of place amidst the madness. Or, perhaps, right at home? You are no longer sure. Long gone was the sweet boy who played harp and sang songs and wrote poems beside the form of his scholarly father and the pale, sickly frame of his prince. That boy is dead and gone, rotting in a cell to the south, wretched and forgotten.
“When your throne crumbles, and your crown becomes too heavy, let me be the first to say ‘I told you so.’”
One, two, three, four, five…
