I am a sword. I am a sword and a flame and a flaming sword, a cutting heat cauterizing as I slice, biting into you to hurt, to maim, but not to kill, to leave you with livid, puckered scars.
I am a flood – a screaming, teeming, turbulent flood of water and memories and blood, blood, blood, splashing and bubbling malignantly over your head again and again and again, cutting your breath, filling your lungs, crashing over you until you stop fighting, can’t try anymore.
I am an altar; I am an altar open to the raging heavens, offering you up to the god of my fury, slicing you open at the core and burning, searing your flesh, letting the stench rot in my nostrils, breathing you in until nothing is left of you but soft, dark, bitter ashes.
I am a pen, I am a story, I am an immortalization of everything and everyone you have caused to suffer, forcing you to read, to see, to admit that all of this, all of this, all of this is yours.
I blame Medea.
4 comments:
No blaming. Thanking. This was awesome.
I absolutely loved the changeling quality of the first line of every stanza.
"letting the stench rot in my nostrils, breathing you until nothing is left of you but soft, dark, bitter ashes."
This was beautiful, very poetic... also angry, but in this case that's a good thing.
I have never seen such anger come from words written by you. I like it, although it was a little unsettling reading it, knowing you wrote it.
I blame Medea too, for your anger.
However this is quite excellent.
I second Charles, and also love his choice of your lines.
For myself though, I also very much like your closing.
I am a pen, I am a story, I am an immortalization of everything and everyone you have caused to suffer, forcing you to read, to see, to admit that all of this, all of this, all of this is yours.
plus exciting news: you broke your habit of academic threes with respect to the number of paragraphs! yay!
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