Engulfed by calculations of how emotions should feel, so utterly given to the tribulations of the ghosts that hang about our shoulders like dead hairs, that is the moment you will begin to forget what love means.
When you become what you preach against, an open milieu of your own counter-accusations spoken in the same dialect as the language with which you were harried by your howling pursuers, that will be the next moment where you will exist apart from and without love.
Almost drowning in an ocean of stale missives and corrosive memories, floating like bad clams that won’t open in a boiling pot, you have grabbed me in your arms and smashed your hammer into my sealed shell and extracted my tiny shivering heart so that you can suck out its poison, picking me from your teeth with a toothpick shaped like one of cupid’s blood-stained murder weapons.
Only distance and wanton disregard await us now. There will be no more warmth, only recrimination and suicidality and hot geysers of blood from old wounds reopened, infected with all this time, all this time that has turned so malignant as if our time together itself has turned into a fanged beast that will provide only a shadow and fear for us to cower beneath while we count the blessings of our own misguided attempts at refurbishing our insides with one another’s.
Lining our pockets with our sanctimony and delight at our counterpart’s mistakes and each halting attempt at understanding will bring even grander misunderstanding until we can no longer identify this conversation as taking place in any language at all, but just unfamiliar noises playing out in familiar melodies: pain into rage, fear into a segue of gestures meant to look like strength that only showcase the fragility of weak hearts.
We will beat each other into even greater submission than the world we escaped together, playing house in our raccoon-eyed reflection sitting in a pile of disabused notions. The junkie and the whore, never knowing who was who, but always knowing both were in the room and waiting to be paid in full.
Blood being viscous and us being vampires, we are greedy to gather the remnants before the great coagulation drowns out our argument and we are left mute, deaf to everything except our own vacancies.
Opening my eyes to the vastness of our love’s many formidable traps we set that have sprung into the dirt past our broken ankles, unsettling the earth leaving the remainders of ourselves amidst our grief, the lamenting farmer reconciling with the fire that consumed his harvest by telling himself the soil will ripen after the ashes settle.
What is this thing that we have now upon us? This frigid little rock scratching between the palms of our hands we hold like the thorns the penitent keeps in his shoes to flagellate his feet on his trek up to god at the top of a mountain only to be felled by a jade, gangrenous sore replacing his fever-dreamed visions of immaculate redemption with the sober death of an atheist.
Leaving this hospice suite to avoid the grating sounds of the dying’s last raspings, gone back to the orphanage where we abandon ourselves once again, squeezed back into the eye of the needle, come squeezed back into a cock, our blood squeezed back into our open wrists and air into our dried up, shriveled little lungs that shriek out:
Only love could hurt this good.