#caliban.

CALIBAN ⋅𖥔⋅ 30, M ⋅𖥔⋅ BIOLOGY / ANATOMY

Put your palms to the ground, a soft breath in. DO YOU FEEL IT? The sun burns your skin slow, slow, slow, tells you that she will kill you with her kiss. I NEVER HAD WINGS ANYWAYS. WHAT AM I TO BE AFRAID OF? The earth under your fingertips trembles like a lover under your body, tells you he hasn't been touched like this ever since you left him to rot from the mistakes your kind made. HUNGER MAKES ROMANTICS OUT OF US. YOUR STARVATION IS NOT A SIN. When blisters become blood becomes bloom in the desert wasteland of an above you once called home, now call haven, you know of a singular truth: WHAT WE HAVE TAKEN WILL BE REPAID WITH LIFE.

My rotted seed masquerading as a daisy-wish in the spring, my tendon-meat kissing bleached carcasses like a teenage dream — this is to say you are a hope behind a bladed mouth, grinning. This is to say there is a hero to a tragedy that befalls the first space mission you are sent on so long as the bodies fertilize properly. You with the eyes of a sun and expertise of a life dead on this earth; you were never meant for an underground hell, this manufactured purgatory. They ask for your knowledge to spare, then for you to spare them sixty-three days into the mission. You grant them neither when the time comes. you sleep like a baby underneath a sky full of stars you could almost touch before returning to earth with their blood long washed off your hands.

It is that dangerous thing — hope hope hope for our bastard children to see another earth we will ruin, teach them to ruin — it is that foolish, human hope that had them sending you to a universe they can place their dreams in only for you to return as one and have them be thankful that despite the missing bodies, the failed mission, the dead crew, there is still YOU. Thank god. We can try again. We never learn from our mistakes, do we? The sun sets and rises in your eyes and we will forget all about how its supernovas once burned our world into this apocalypse and instead choose to bask in the light when you tell the story of an earth's hunger that you fed. In due time, you will do the same for this one, too.

DYNAMICS

VOYAGER ⋅𖥔⋅  NECESSARY VIOLENCE / SOMETHING TO TOUCH / INSTEAD OF SOMETHING / TOUCHING YOU

Are we both not looking to feel something in the mechanical heart of a city we did not choose to be in? You with your car-crash whims and me with my sunburned delusions; two ends of a spectrum meeting in a supernova, in a collision of metal and ligament. violence is violence is violence is emptiness is ache no matter if it comes from the technicolour glow of your streams or the filtered moonlight of my garden. In you, i find a glitch of me. In our wreckage, we could salvage for a meaning for this kind of hollow existence.

ULYSSES ⋅𖥔⋅  THE ONLY THING A MONSTER NEEDS / IS ANOTHER ONE LIKE HIM

Like calls to like, the way vines twine around corpses; moss over decay to bring it back to life again in a way that is all wrong and still right. In him, a frenzy that looks like your piranha dreams; all hunger, teeth. If you told him of a sin done for a sainthood, would he share a red-bauble secret that looks like yours or would you delight more in the slow harvesting of a traitor’s lips before it even has the chance to open? Curiosity makes a daydreamer out of you, and soon you will itch for something real to test your theories.

WELCOME TO PROJECT ORPHEUS, EVER! YOU HAVE BEEN ACCEPTED AS CALIBAN

"i had suns before you, golden-eyed things i played with before i cracked them open to see if its core was as beautiful as its light. all your innards are always vacuous, but perhaps that’s just how i like you. my teeth, my body’s knife disguised as a smile ever-so-charming; executioner without order with a touch soft enough to be a guillotine’s kiss. 

your mother calls you the sun and with this, she dooms you, me, us, before the story even begins."

How do you reach heaven? There is only one way: death. Aris was named after the sun. Perhaps, in a different world, he would light up Earth's gloomy shores in his brilliance. Perhaps, in a different world, we would stand under his rays, smiles warmed. BUT THIS IS NOT THAT WORLD. They tried to snuffle his shine; they tried to lock him underground. But the sun is over-present and undeniable — within darkness, it only burns brighter. It only becomes more radiant — a bit less beautiful, a bit less pure; but radiant and radiation stem from the same root, don't they? With Caliban, Ever, you explore not the terrors that lurk in the dark — but rather, the corrupting horror of light. Perhaps we will all be Icarus, in the end.