“I love you,” he whispered, and that was the moment he knew what he was going to do. When you loved someone, you put their needs before your own. No matter how inconceivable those needs were; no matter how fucked up; no matter how much it made you feel like you were ripping yourself into pieces.” ― Jodi Picoult, The Pact
The light vacated her eyes and left a dull black, dull like wet rocks dried in the sun. I saw it, and ran to stay clear of that magic, only the most vile of curses could pull the life from the eyes of wizards. Hurrying to my home in the tangled roots and quickly pulling my herbs and potions from the cellar, I began making a remedy against this foe, glancing out the window at the dark eyes as the wizard became the witch. I knew she smelled my cure, her nose in the wind as the ears of the night prowlers pushed out beside her once beautiful face. How does this happen? Can purity be so easily chased from the soul? Crushing the ingredients, small clouds of dust surrounded the bowl as I poured in the cure. She crouched on all fours now, all innocence gone, the grimace of hunger replacing her kind and gentle smile. I poured in the oils of remedy and brought them to a rolling boil. She gazed intently at my door, the instincts from another world directed her to my haven. Picking up the pot from the fire, a sudden slam at the door almost made me drop the concoction, that and a frantic clawing and growling made my task all the more urgent as the sweat of my concentration dripped down my nose and into my brew. The door splintered under her assault, just as I filled a small bottle, and ran, tripping over my feet and stumbling into the cellar. The door here was made for protection and had a spell on it to prevent entry but I knew no incantation would keep me safe now. She saved me not so long ago, as I endured a moment with with wicked things of night and now I would die for the chance to repay that kindness. Shadows crept around the entrance as the smoky tendrils flung open my last refuge. I knew she would kill me, though she loved me, and with that impetus, I swallowed the cure. The potion ripped through me like freezing water, taking my breath and leaving me helpless before her mauling fangs. As the life slipped from me, I saw that the flesh she bit off allowed more of the cure to repel the evil that overcame her. With my last breath, I saw the light come back to her, and as she stood, beautiful and glorious, her lovely eyes glistened with the tears of my death.
I gather the wounded, from near and far
Giving my gift, no matter who you are
There are those who hurt, rip, break and maim
Even when slashed deep, I’m still the same
Reaching out in the raging battles night
With calm words healing, bringing compassions light
Warriors hardened with ease they kill
My talents bind the bloody that is my skill
So go with your swords, by them you’ll die
I come with second life, breaths from on high
I’ll relax on that day, with friends all around
People I never knew, in the field I found
They made it through with unsightly stitches
My helping hand, pulled them from the ditches
Triage is my name, and I wear it with pride
The next skin I save, may be your ugly hide
“What we think of as our sensitivity is only the higher evolution of terror in poor dumb beasts. We suffer for nothing. Our own death wish is our only real tragedy.” – Mario Puzo
As I listen, my music carrying me away, I feel death circling. A thousand shards of ice sharp pain brings me its gifts of gray emotion. Inevitably sunrise comes, in spite of my night loving wishes. A blank stare possesses my eyes, and life leaves. Can I be dead and alive at the same time? Is this what’s wrong? Am I trying to move rigor mortised limbs? If feelings are dead, is the blood running warm and blue any life at all? It’s like nothing matters when you look over that edge. I want to peek, to glimpse at what’s beyond. Is this what predators sense? That I flirt with death and sleep restlessly for want of it? They surround my camp with fire lit eyes. I see them jumping, ducking in and out of the light, playing with me, afraid to rush in too quick. One tugs at me, yanking my leg to see if I move. I gasp, pushing away the comfort of mortality to engage the pack. It’s the fight that brings me back to life. Until then there’s no reason, but when the enemies come, that, that is why I live, only to fight. Men have ruined everything else in my life but this I control. When it’s time, I will bring death to myself, no one else will take that privilege.
“Let me tell you how the story ends, where the good guys die and the bad guys win. It doesn’t matter how many friend you make, but the graffiti they write on your grave.”
– Gerard Way
– Gerard Way
Poetry is for the dead.
Mocking, that’s what he said.
As life pours from my pen,
His word echoes, poetry is for the dead.
Life breathed through the written instead
He repeated, poetry is for the dead.
New beginnings from what is read
Poetry is more than for the dead
“It’s so strange how life works: You want something and you wait and wait and feel like it’s taking forever to come. Then it happens and it’s over and all you want to do is curl back up in that moment before things changed.” ― Lauren Oliver, Delirium
“She didn’t say it, I only thought she said it. So really it was my thought, my words, and not hers. How could I confuse “I love you” with “May I take your order?”
Pulled deeper, though I had no choice, yet the illusion is that I do. With the edge drawing near, I push against the rough limits of my captivity. Faced with a destiny of falling, in your eyes I see the trap. Both feet planted, earth piling up against my struggle for life, I take a deep and final breath, then jump off with no resistance as I thrust into you. My life has ended, with glee your eyes show your victory. I gave myself to you in the act of love, now my gift has become your weapon. Only one thing can control me, my soul. Using me against me, such a marvelous concept. You have perfected this betrayal of my soul against my mind in an exquisite manner. Whatever, its’ to late now, I fall without redemption, knowing I did this for you, but really for me. That’s what makes all of this so crazy, how easily I committed an emotional suicide. The lure of love, the utopia of ideals and concepts of how life should be, these are the real villains in this crime of passion. I sold my soul long ago to these fantasies, you only came to cash in on the deal.