I see them in the night: the dirt, the blood,
the silver of your eyes in fevered dreams.
I taste the foul air and feel the mud
like drying paint upon my face. It seems
so close to me at night, like I am there,
afire with fear and screaming senses, cold
with panic, freezing in the nighttime air—
all memory of sense returns to hold
my dreaming mind in jagged, tearing claws.
For when I lived these horrors first, you were
the flour that held my flesh in place; because
of you I dreamt of silver eyes—was sure
to see, at least once more, the light of day.
But now I live this darkness once again
and you have never been so far away.
I cannot speak to you, and so I paint.
I paint the Games; the terror and the good,
and you; though in the night I cannot feel
your touch, I see your face—your scarlet blood,
your iron stance, and stare of burnished steel.
Your touch has left my dreams, but in the day
I feel your absence like a twisting blade.
And yet, was it not I who turned away,
who turned my back, who left a debt unpaid?
You owe me nothing; I owe you my life,
and more, and more than I could ever say.
But truth can cut much faster than a knife,
and when it opened me I turned away
from you to bleed, though I had not the right.
And still my lifeblood flows like water down
around my sorry skin, and in the night
it pools around my bed—in truth, I drown.
In truth I drown, for still it seems a lie—
ashamed am I: I cannot help but think
you lied to me. You lied to me. I lie
awake in dreams and drown; in truth I sink.
For I am jealousy, entitlement,
and pain; and wrong—so wrong, in everything;
but can I bring myself to not resent
your actions, can I bring myself to cling
a little less, step back, and let you live
your choice to just survive, apart, alone?
It is the very least that I could give
to simply understand, and then atone
for turning cold. But there is poison in
my heart: a blackness creeping day by day,
and it would take all that I am. But when
I feel it growing, it is kept at bay
by thoughts of you—my selfish love for you
is all that keeps the dark from binding; all
that keeps the sun up shining. Yet this, too
is poisonous, for how can I just call
you friend, and be with you, and look into
your steel grey eyes, without the hope that what
you said was truth was lies, and lies was truth.
I cannot rid myself of this, or shut
my heart to you. And yet, I must, or all
will crumble: night will burst within my soul,
and you will be alone, and I will fall
apart and never more will live as whole,
and we two broken pieces will become
the pawns in some perverted game between
the devil and the ignorant. The sum
of us will be the cogs in a machine,
our only purpose servitude without
a mind, without a heart. I cannot let
them win so easily. When they tear out
my lungs, a scream will rise from them: “Not yet!
I am not done, I have far more to say!”
For as they take my life, I want them all
to know that I am me, not some display
of someone else’s vision. I will fall,
but I will not allow my craven fear
to be the root. I will apologize,
and be your friend, your simple friend, and clear
my mind of pride that tells me truth was lies.
Perhaps I will begin by knowing you.
I know that you would give your life for me;
I know that you are independent; too,
I know that you are strong; but one can see
these things. I want to know what lies within:
your hopes and dreams and fears and loves and wit.
But that will come in time. I will begin
with this: what colour is your favourite?
Source:
http://skrymir.wordpress.com/2014/01/12/ccxlv/