i weep, though in the name of her prosperity and her fortification, still her pupils escape rainwater, and her blood pleats around promising gashes; i am afraid, i am alone, and though my eyes deny the actuality, my muscles seep empty ashes at the hilt of her throne – her happiness is my righteousness, and her falsehoods are my scriptural notions; “you can only appeal for the truth,” she says – but now there are fleapits in my bullet wounds, and there are mouthfuls of veins in my warmth; “but i strain for you, as i’ve never strained before, yet you glorify my shame, my fault, and my pain; declaring that you will continuously loathe, and that you are afraid, you are alone, and though you know the truth – “ “i will ignore my feelings for you” i weep, in the wake of her self-inflicted euthanasia, “i was sworn to protect her,” i will beg and doubt, but the placid answer i will gather is only as the stars above; “how might you have protected her from her own blade?”
crooked-clockwork
