WHEN DID MY BODY BECOME A PLACE ?

i know of a girl who is a doe in the woods, wide-eyed innocence with the kind of smile that makes hunters stop in their tracks, finger paused just above the trigger —

she reminds them of their hunger. desire to consume what they do not have. a stomach growls regardless of the beauty your eyes feast on in the forest she calls her home; animal-hunger, animal-grief when you stand over her dead body. you wear her doe-antlers that you gouge into the side of your skull in her memory, a twisted taxidermy of your body. an arching of bone like hands to the sky, reaching for a heaven you will not get into. murderer. you swallowed her whole so there was no body to bury, only a licking of fingers. they ask you how you survived the winter.

turn her corpse over in your memory. did you steal her face or were you born twin reflections? do her antlers weigh heavy on your head when the snow dusts the bone-curve of the new crown your wear like a lover’s hands on thighs, caressing?

don’t worry, dear reader. the butchering is mostly metaphorical.

the hunger is always real.

✢

“i’m fucking freezing. there’s no way we’re going to make it past october at this rate — which of us has the most meat on them?” there’s a curl in javi’s voice that indicates a turn of his lips, a permanent fixture to his features now; old humour turned cruel if not completely drained of him. “badr, you’re looking scrumptious, plus there’s enough of your stupid body for all of us to gnaw on for a few weeks. be a real one, yeah?”

last night, i saw you in a dream. in it, you were covered in the blood of a murdered city, but smiling. free. the night before, i dreamt of another one of us floating in the lakeside as it froze; summer to winter in a matter of seconds, trapping her like a butterfly in resin. the night before that, he —

in the bible, people had visions, right? like prophets and stuff?

in every dream, i wake up hungry.

winter is coming and there are twenty-four birds sit-sitting on a tree. point to them with your rifle, shoot in quick succession. more bone to add to your antler-crown, gore still dripping off the points. wear you like a memory, moment of silence before you reload with a sharp tug, one eye closed and the other squinting into the scope.

they did not make you a bird of prey so you learn to grow teeth, start from the belly until it ripples into every inch of skin. bone-god, death-eater. that will come later.

“there’ll be enough to eat.” you say it and no one believes you; body already too-thin and on the precipice of death. vulture-picked even before all this. they think this makes you weak when all it does is give you more space for a filling.

“we won’t have to worry about food again.”

in the back, javi: “what the fuck do they mean? what the fuck?”

✢

it occurs where most nightmares do: at a school dance.

we will make makeshift normalcies in the wild where we do not belong — ( where we return to, always, always ) — homes out of foraged cabins and skinny calves brushing at night, learn to fall asleep despite the spiders crawling on temples, despite the thump-thump of something coming, of hearts sending out morse-code warnings none of us know how to read. weeks, now, and it’s almost sweet how we’ve tamed survival into a kind of domesticity as the changing of seasons sits patiently on the horizon, us willfully ignoring it and winter on its hind legs, licking its lips as it looks at our warm bodies.

“you ought to wear your hair more, like this — doesn’t it frame your face so lovely?” isabele’s practiced beauty is something from an old life unfitting for this old world, glitter carefully smeared over behiye’s eyelids. none of the roughness of delilah’s palms, wariness of warden’s shoulders; signs of nature’s erosion of civility on our bodies but none on your once, almost lover.

behiye’s eyes are wide, expectant as they look at you. there’s a smile as you lean to her, thumb swiping across lips to spread the gloss gathered, gazes locking. despite the gentle grace you still carry, there is a forewarning in blackened hazels that only she will know.

we will ruin this too, won’t we?

“perfect.” whispered, slow curl of mouths around the word. turn it into a melody. isabele smiles so proudly, hands clapping as she bustles to here and there to fuss over decorations and dresses, blissfully naïve. how you love her. how she reminds you of —

homecoming would have been today, if everything was as normal as it should have been. in this nothing wilderness, you will make a normalcy out of anything: flat beer you rationed into old mason jars to sip slowly, dresses smoothed with pressing hands over wrinkles, bonfires you dance around to top 40 songs we try to remember the words to. laughter echoes into sunset, into darkness. the flames still flicker but your eyes stay pitch-black no matter how close you sit to the fire, hands outstretched.

winter waiting. hungry for the warmth of bodies, of innocence.

✢

the blade is eight inches long, enough to run him through twice over.

you hold the knife high over your head, all the skull-crowns you wear laughing at his writhing. in this version of the story, he does not get the peace of death after decades of running from your grasp.

you want his dead fucking body now.

body meet blade in holy matrimony, tender as a kiss when it pushes through skin, organ, bone, spine, skin again. bowstring across violins with the repetition of our body’s anatomy like a melismatic run across notes waiting for a crescendo ending, with the sawing that comes afterwards.

is there screaming or laughing? there is so much blood and for once, none of it is yours. you lick your lips and you taste metal, taste him.

you can hear the rest of them coming, know the sound of bare feet against the dead leaves of the forest you’ve made a home out of, hear their whoops and screams of laughter. joyous. when was the last time we were this happy? you gave them this.

those who are here to witness the first of many touch your arms lightly, remind you to rise over the body, as you should. chins hooked to shoulders, giggling soft in your ears, cheeks nuzzled to necks. babbled praises, more sounds and sighs than anything. nonsensical prayers. good enough for now, but later you will have to teach them of proper worship.

“eat. feast.”

you are a benevolent god, aren’t you? you meet their eyes one by one and they hold your gaze, ready. waiting. winter is coming. winter is coming. winter has lived in our bones for years and years now. no one moves.

“you first.” behiye’s voice rings clear, sweet as church bells on a sunday morning. there are murmurs of agreement surrounding her, you.

you smile wide enough to split your lips, your blood mixing with his. what is a god without their believers, so lovely in their listening? you stain your skirts red when you kneel before him in respect, head bowed for a moment of silence.

i wrote of cannibal-lambs once. did you catch it? did you see this coming?

when i said i was hungry, i never said it was for meat.

✢

winter comes and never goes. the heart in your hands is heavy, slit throats gathering snow in the gaping hole you left in her. this is all for love, i promise. this was always a love story. i don’t know how to write anything else.

you rest the stilled organ in the middle of drawn futures in blood against the frozen dirt, candles flickering and animal-bone, human-skull gathered and placed carefully. the others are circled perfectly around the sacred space we’ve made, humming harmonies from the throat. you let your eyes close, thankful. you love them so.

we thank you for your gracious offering. you will find immortality in us. we will carry you safe back home. tell heaven we will return one day.

you hold it high for them to see, hoods draping off heads as you tilt your head to the sky. one moment, two —

teeth meet flesh. were you waiting for poetry? there is only this: incisors digging into the soft meat of a once-friend, now-memory, now-ghost. you tear the organ, blood dribbling down chins. greedy devourings, breaths of frost red-tinged. can you see it? can you taste the fear under your tongue?

they ask you how you survived the winter. you tell them it was easy.

“contrary to popular belief,” said with a voice cutting through the silence like moonlight through the dark of the room, “i’m not as breakable as one might think. only when i allow it. only when i want to be.”

they’ve been all too aware of his presence by their bedside into the late hours, showing no signs of leaving. can you still remember the touch of his fingers upon your skin as he carried you back to a not-home, bleeding? did you imagine the hesitance when he let you go, the way brushes of fingertips lingered for a heartbeat too long?

he has not left your bedside even after the wound has been bandaged, even as the red trickled to a stop. you do not pretend to sleep for either of your comforts; choose instead to let the night curl around the underground in your silence, only turning to him with careful movements when the moon is high enough to illuminate your eyes on him.

“come.” hands reaching out for theirs, renaissance paintings in motion. “please.”

fingers wrap around wrists, pull you under sheets like water; sink into me, arms finding their way around him like the caress of a wave, settling comfortably around him as if we are not strangers, as if we are something unspoken, too far for language to reach and not enough for touch to speak.

let me try anyways. fingertips tracing the rise of cheekbones, the curve of your lips, gentle as the first snowfall in a desert. if you wanted to, there is a sunburst of freckles on my left shoulder, map them and tell me what stories you make out of me.

silence. silence. i’m looking at you not for answers, but for a safe place to bleed.

“you look at me like i’m a ghost.” whispered, curious. “not like a vessel. not like a tool for the dead, but the dead itself. am i somebody to you?”

a tap to his lips; bottom, then corner. the beginnings of a melody if you listen closely.

“i hope whoever i am, i am somebody good.”

where are your hands? i hope they are holding me. it would be such a shame if they weren’t.

“were you afraid, when i was bleeding in your arms? you must have seen that sight before. i’m sorry.” thumb fanning across cheek, slow. eyes flickering down to mouths before up to gazes again. “how cruel it must be, to have a gift that heals and yet still feel like an open wound.”

a smile, a small thing. a touch of something tragic, a touch of blood still on the bottom of my lips. we are both much too far from the temples they made of us, but there is no belief to have tonight, only the certainty that i fit into you the way bodies do to the ocean before they’re pulled under, under, under.

𝘋𝘌𝘈𝘙 𝘎𝘐𝘙𝘓, 𝘠𝘖𝘜 𝘛𝘏𝘐𝘕𝘒 𝘈 𝘏𝘈𝘜𝘕𝘛𝘐𝘕𝘎 𝘐𝘚 𝘚𝘖 𝘌𝘈𝘚𝘠. 𝘠𝘖𝘜 𝘔𝘜𝘚𝘛 𝘉𝘌 𝘕𝘌𝘞 𝘏𝘌𝘙𝘌. 𝘓𝘌𝘛 𝘔𝘌 𝘚𝘏𝘖𝘞 𝘠𝘖𝘜 𝘈𝘙𝘖𝘜𝘕𝘋.

the curtain falls like a guillotine, a death sentence for more than one. there goes your head, rolling off the stage and falling with a top-top-toppling into the audience, glassy eyes staring at the blinding lights and cheshire grins still bleeding on your lips.

her blood stains your hands and you can feel the exact moment something frays into a breakage in your mind.

ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ꜰᴜᴄᴋɪɴɢ ᴛᴏᴜᴄʜ ᴍᴇ.

hands drop from the lifeless body of a once-lover, always-lover, now-never as if burned, the red of her body searing through your skin. for a moment, there is nothing but the sound of your own ragged breathing, steadily growing more and more rapid; diaphragm expanding-contracting too fast too quick, feel it stretching to an uncomfortable boiling just over the fires of a hungry panic.

no no no no i’m sorry please don’t please don’t do this to me please leave me alone i’m sorry no no please please don’t no i can’t i can’t no NO —

ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀꜱᴛ ᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴇᴠᴇʀ ʜᴀᴘᴘᴇɴ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴇ.

is the scream something that erupts from your mind or your lips? you watched the life fade from her eyes, watched her reach out to you and mere moments later, a whisper in a voice you would know better than your own for how it haunted you, haunts you even when she was still alive in that stupid fucking melody —

of course you would not be spared. quiet, but undoubtedly, unmistakably her. your nightingale sings only for you now in the cage of your skull, hatching into a death and learning with clumsy chirps just how to make an echo.

ʏᴏᴜ ᴅɪᴅ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴇ.

𝘐 𝘛𝘖𝘓𝘋 𝘠𝘖𝘜 𝘠𝘖𝘜 𝘞𝘖𝘜𝘓𝘋 𝘒𝘐𝘓𝘓 𝘏𝘌𝘙 𝘛𝘖𝘖. 𝘐 𝘛𝘖𝘓𝘋 𝘠𝘖𝘜 𝘓𝘖𝘝𝘌 𝘐𝘚 𝘈 𝘔𝘜𝘙𝘋𝘌𝘙 𝘞𝘏𝘌𝘕 𝘐𝘛 𝘊𝘖𝘔𝘌𝘚 𝘍𝘙𝘖𝘔 𝘠𝘖𝘜, 𝘚𝘈𝘐𝘋 𝘠𝘖𝘜 𝘞𝘖𝘜𝘓𝘋 𝘙𝘜𝘐𝘕 𝘛𝘏𝘐𝘚, 𝘛𝘖𝘖. 𝘊𝘈𝘕 𝘠𝘖𝘜 𝘉𝘌𝘓𝘐𝘌𝘝𝘌 𝘚𝘏𝘌 𝘋𝘐𝘌𝘋 𝘍𝘖𝘙 𝘚𝘖𝘔𝘌𝘛𝘏𝘐𝘕𝘎 𝘈𝘚 𝘗𝘈𝘛𝘏𝘌𝘛𝘐𝘊 𝘈𝘚 𝘠𝘖𝘜?

“isabele, isabele i’m sorry, i’m sorry i didn’t mean to — all of it, i’m sorry for all of it, it was me, it was me i’m sorry what do i have to do to — “ 

ɪ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴍʏ ʟɪꜰᴇ ʙᴀᴄᴋ, ᴘᴀꜱɪ. ɪ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴅᴇꜱᴇʀᴠᴇ ᴛʜɪꜱ.

𝘈𝘕𝘋 𝘠𝘖𝘜 𝘋𝘖𝘕'𝘛 𝘋𝘌𝘚𝘌𝘙𝘝𝘌 𝘈𝘕𝘖𝘛𝘏𝘌𝘙 𝘋𝘈𝘠 𝘞𝘏𝘌𝘕 𝘈𝘓𝘓 𝘠𝘖𝘜'𝘙𝘌 𝘎𝘖𝘐𝘕𝘎 𝘛𝘖 𝘋𝘖 𝘐𝘚 𝘞𝘈𝘚𝘛𝘌 𝘐𝘛. 𝘐𝘛 𝘚𝘏𝘖𝘜𝘓𝘋 𝘉𝘌 𝘔𝘌 𝘐𝘕𝘚𝘛𝘌𝘈𝘋. 𝘐𝘛 𝘚𝘏𝘖𝘜𝘓𝘋 𝘉𝘌 𝘏𝘌𝘙. 𝘕𝘖𝘛 𝘠𝘖𝘜. 𝘕𝘖𝘛 𝘠𝘖𝘜.

a wretched howl erupting from the bottom of this grave we call a body, sound a lyrebird makes that is its own when it runs out of mimicries, when there is no other sound on earth that it can borrow to voice its anguish. of course the only thing that would be yours would be the sound of grief, banshee screeches over bodies. 

“hanzvadzi, ndapota. ndokumbira kuti asunungurwe, ndapota muregei, ndine urombo — “

𝘜𝘊𝘏𝘈𝘙𝘈𝘙𝘈𝘔𝘈 𝘕𝘌𝘡𝘝𝘐.

set the scene: you wanted something beautiful, tragic, poetry of lovers dying in arms and blood staining palms crimson, teardrops falling like stars across cheeks. you wanted to be a lighthouse in a sea of terrors but my girl, my dear, this haunting is as old as creation and you are but a little bird whose throat i could slit if i so please. 

you wanted a tragedy and i will wrench it from their being in a bone-snapping, mind-devouring to give it to you. at what point does the guttural screams turn into laughter, into tears? 

they always had you singing in the most beautiful places, built to augment echoes. the audience is quiet, the audience is made up of ghosts as they find mad-dogs, mad-gods over corpses of the beloved isabele aurea de azevedo, hands bloodied with her simple gunshot wound, with their flays of skin torn from nails from their own hands, throats. 

ʜᴏᴡ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴏ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴇ?

this, this one you heard her say with a certainty. heard it one too many times, say it once and i’ll make haunting out of you, say it forever and i’ll let it make a home in me. here, nestled in the base of my throat is where you will live. there is a perpetual digging, frenzied, to free you, to free me. 

they bury two bodies on a sunday. you do not go to the funeral. you do not go to the funeral. 

“how horribly rude of you,” long fingers flick open lighters, holding flame to candle, “to not visit me. making me come all the way to you. what was the point of the both of us being tied to death if you were going to sever your string?”

the night is starless, moonless. if you look closely at the rolling hills, you will see the slightest glow of light; candles outlining a grave and a figure bent over it, cleaning tombstones and dusting sites, curled up at the bed of dirt before it when they finish. the spring breeze is just enough to rustle skirts, wave candle flames. just enough to feel like a touch.

if you close your eyes, can you remember the sound of their voice? pull the thread of sound and twist it into delusion, daydream. i’m glad i met you. i won’t leave you. i’ll stay with you. i promise, promise, you are not too much for me to hold. i want to. i want you.

twist it into your personal noose: i lo —

but is that not the problem? he had never said any of those things; your heart making up the script and waiting for his voice in your head to say the lines. eyes closed, cheek to the dirt as you curl into yourself, curl into graves of all that could have been.

you knew he would not come back.

you had wished him a peaceful death, once. you know he is happy. you know he is with a love he has been aching for for too long, know better than to try and bring him back. your hands itch. you do not go to funerals as a rule: swarms will always see you as a cure for a death they are mourning, and the smallest shred of hope will incite a madness. you would know this best. you missed his wake. you have nothing of his; told him you were trying to curb your selfishness and this is the final test. you grieve alone, bird burying itself in the dirt. you smoked through two packs on the day of his funeral. you miss him. you wanted this for him because you know he wanted this in the end.

to die for love, to return to it. you are no different. this understanding does not make mourning any easier.

you miss him. you love him. you grieve him. all of these are synonyms, things you are afraid to say out loud. how dare he be a thing death could not reach and let himself fall into its hold? how dare you be a thing haunted by death and not be haunted by him?

perhaps you are both not very good at your jobs. you will forgive him but you will never forgive yourself.

“please come back for me.” haunted house with all its doors, windows open. selfishly, you wanted to be enough for a resurrection. if not in his method, then by way of mine. “there’s still so much… “

a tear, a quiet sniff. you refused to believe it, but you knew the truth: all things will leave you. him, too. you just wanted to believe your vulture would be untouchable enough for you to be selfish for a little while longer.

hope will gut you like that. there’s that viscera spilling out of your body from a scar shaped like his memory, streaming down your cheeks. every foolish dream, every once-upon-a-maybe, every flutter of a butterfly-wing in your stomach at a touch, a glimpse — you want to take the knife to yourself to dig it out of this fucking body, know it is something you no longer need, something that infests you. it will be life that haunts you, not death; what could have been what should have been what you needed what you wanted what you felt get it out get it out get it out get it out —

but that’s all you have left of him. a hope so beautiful, the beginning of something sweet before death severed the story short, leaving you without an ending. this is all you have left of him, so you keep it in you even as it tears you from the inside out.

“i hope you’re at peace now. i still hate you for leaving.” whispered not to the grave, but to the night sky he once gave you. “if you aren’t going to come back, then please wait for me. i hope it won’t be too long. try not to forget me.”