ANGER

     ( somehow you caught me as i thundered by ― the irony of a soft - feathered swan stopping a storm. you quieted my heart,   or maybe you quelled it with every wing - beat. thought i’d break the gentle slope of your neck with my turbulence but you simply unfolded your calm wings ― 

                             opened into something so beautiful even a storm stills. )

     what a pitiful,   mangled exhale. angry ― no,   no,   that’s not quite right anymore ( calloused. crooked. but no longer angry. ) ― fingers scrap at the gravel beneath them with the same futility of clawing sand. what hamartia! from his solar plexus blood flows steady as a babbling brook. he’s trembling. he’s trembling just as much as when he traded his life for the other orphans,   and for himejima’s life and ― - oh god,   this is karmic retribution,   isn’t it? his borrowed time has finally ran out,   hasn’t it?   “   o - oh,   i ― -   “   his words are unbirthed apologies.   “   i’m not.   “   it takes so much strength to lift his head. there are such small hands gripping his right shoulder. a tendril of artificial bell flower ― eternal love ― dangles like a sacred gong from the concerned tilt of yukako’s head,   propped along her crown. he had told her not to wear it until after this war ― the delicate hair ornament symbolizing his marriage proposal ― but she’s stubborn,   and enthusiastic,   and,   well,   he’s unwittingly happy at her acceptance of him. of that little cobalt star - shaped flower and his clumsy poetry ― he doesn’t deserve her. 

     but he deserves to die. he’s always known that. that’s why he’s never been afraid. 

     “   i’m not ready.   “

     his hands are quivering too much for him to press them together ― for some overdue religious comfort. rather,   he grabs one of his fiancee’s hands in both of his bloody ones. she’s his broken gospel. his dying prayer and raw hymn. he coughs. it rattles his ribs. to him,   it feels like there’s shrapnel exploding in his chest.  “   i - i’m probably going to haunt you. it’s going to suck,   because i’m not selfless enough to hope you find someone else. i don’t wanna watch you marry someone else,   or have his kids.   “   oh. oh,   he’s crying. he didn’t even know his body was capable of that anymore. she cradles him a coffin. his breathing has turned into capricious wheezing.   “   i really wanted to marry you,   yukako.   “   death is an orphic tide. it washes over him drowsy. it’s getting harder and harder to keep his eyes open. he lays his head on yukako’s shoulder. he wants to stay in her arms forever. 

     this is the pursuit of a   bird   in search of a   cage. this is the amorous surrender of his flight ― the tender fluttering into her aviary - arms. concede softly. concede with silken feathers stroking. concede with careful talons. concede into her consoling fingertips ― oh,   how perfectly she kneads the nape of his neck. how unafraid she drags her hands through his hair ― how his hot exhale leaves the skin of her throat sticky. his fangs are sharp and with them he could easily flay the flesh from her neck,   but he’s nothing more than docile in her arms. they’re like a fairy - tale ― wisp - winds murmuring through the long grass and their hair ;   hers,   flowing like a river of black pearl. oh,   she’s much too beautiful of a cage to be holding him. elegant gold weaving into masterfully crafted bars. a bocote perch that he’s hesitant to leave marks on. he’s nothing more than a common starling ― he doesn’t deserve all of this ― all of her. still,   he clenches onto her with raw desperation. she should be scared. he could devour her ― a part of him still wants to ― but he holds his lips tightly together. kaigaku maps the slope of her jawline with the tip of his nose and holds onto her scent like he’s testing a fine wine. she smells like peaches and the celestial city. he still feels hunger ― a ghastly sort of kind ― and a lovely sort of kind ― where he wants to consume her soul through the wetness of his kiss. where he wants to inhale her heart through her throat to make room for nothing but himself inside of her chest. 

     he’s always been a selfish creature. his love is no different. he pledges his possession with a parted - lip peck beneath her ear,   exhaling as heavily as a beast for only her to hear. if her body is some sort of godly temple ― he intends to tear down every pillar and desecrate her.

    the warped sneer of her coquettish cupid’s bow defines her as a scorned feline. he’s sure she has snared plenty of men ― sure she struck them directly between the ribs with a lovely little arrow ― and reeled them to her. the elegant sharp points of her arrows ― she pulls them out bloody and licks it gold,   probably. those lips tell charming lies behind her demure fan. 

      “   oh,   princess,   “   he croons. it’s a nasty sound. a faux - loving purr that makes one wonder if kaigaku has ever had a heart inside of that chest of his ― or if there’s just oxygen. she could probably nestle between his ribs ― there’s certainly room ;   in that empty,   empty,   empty space. he plays an ACID - LICKED SNICKER on his lips. he’s scorn slurred. he’s kerosene dripping. he’s a viper’s kiss. the tips of his claws curl a strand of hair gently behind her delicate little ear,   a mockery of brotherly affection. he pinches that same strand and tugs. a harrowing warmth,   like fingers digging into a bullet wound ― like using them to spread it wider and bloodier. some sort of garish euphoria.   “   did i hurt your feelings?   “   down from her scalp,   his palm hikes the piedmont between her neck and shoulder ― much too chummy,   he certainly knows. this is a brawl between foxes,   with their slanted glares and snarling wit. 

     “   i wouldn’t dream of intentionally upsetting you! i supposed you’re simply much more delicate than i had assumed.   “   oh,   but she’s anything other than a gossamer flower. she doesn’t unfurl beneath the moonlight ― she wilts and rots. hemlock and mortar and grind.   “  i’m so sorry.   “

     THE LIGHTNING ROD. whether it’s your turbulent nature,   your flash quick mind,   or the air of unknown about you,   your undercurrent is the lightning rod. you are somewhat unpredictable,   but if we unraveled we’d see you know exactly what you’re doing,   but it makes you feel less vulnerable to pretend it wasn’t planned. some people stay back from you,   but others would follow you cross country,   for the very same reason. they don’t know enough about you. the difference is in who wants to learn more. keep your golden nature,   it’s exciting,   but don’t be afraid to admit what you know. matshona dhliwayo said   “   lightning strikes but does not roar   ”   . your bite will always be worse than your bark,   keep that close to your chest.

     observant ― a trait of his own  ,  a trait people used to praise him for  ,  one of the abilities he had learned how to develop through the times and after failing so many  ,  sharpening his senses until they reached its peak  .  he lets a sigh escape  ,  his chest felt heavy from the thought of that night  &  for the fact the boy thought he didn’t notice his absence  .  back at that time  ,  years ago  ,  he was weak  .  not only physically  .  

    the man shakes his head  ,  a sign of denial  ,  lips parted open to allow him to speak  ,     finally .     ❝  i did  .  but i’ve been told you were sleeping already  &  i had to make preparations for the night  .  the .. creature itself was the one to tell me about your deal  .  it was too late  .  so i ask you  :  why do you wish to hate me so much  ?  ❞

     GENTLE SHEEP ― please give him your wool. GENTLE SHEEP ― he’s so cold. GENTLE SHEEP ― he sheared too deep and now you’re bleeding. GENTLE SHEEP ― he’ll still wear the blood - soaked offering ;   he thinks it keeps him even warmer now,   actually. GENTLE SHEEP ― he’s selfish enough to ask of you to keep bleeding for him. 

     there’s something like a rock in his chest ― or rocks,   rather ;   rubble of slate,   and shale,   and basalt ― AND COAL,   to make him all the more flammable. he’s got a rather insipid heart,   so it probably doesn’t matter if he reduces it to ashes anyways. 

     it doesn’t matter if he goes up in flames. he’s probably always been a pyre. he’s a coffin cottoned on the inside with bundles of red wool. he won’t be buried. HE’LL BE INCINERATED. there’s a weep of his tongue against his bottom lip ― a heavy gulp,   as though he’s swallowing a stone. his mouth puckers the way one’s would after tasting arsenic. ( wool and burning ― baa,   baa,   ash sheep? )   “   i wasn’t sleeping!   “   he’s not sobbing ― but he is sweating. trembling. himejima is still so impossibly tall ― it feels imposing rather than protective,   now.   “   it was so dark! and i waiting for you and waited and waited and you never came. some ― - something else did. and it had sharp teeth and a long tongue and talked about how i was too skinny to be tasty but that it was going to eat me anyways and nobody was ever even going to know!   ‘