The water will burn, my brain warns, and my skin quakes, premature. As if screaming now will save it pain in the future. The skin does not know: the pain comes anyway, scream now or later.
Them, with their iron-clad blindness, leaping from the cliffs, coming back whole, euphoric. I saw it with my own eyes.
Us, with our memories, our scars, snickers and sneers.
Faith, this single, impenetrable divide, soaked in blood, brewed in death.
In the end, it is your heart that will guide the knife to your throat.
I run for pain, the excruciating burn of desire. I burn for the exquisite absence of thought.
A moment of both celebration and mourning, of the dreams you have lived and those futures not realized; of the masks of the past and the veil of the future; of the passing of yesterday, and the inevitability of tomorrow.
Take my hand, and I promise you art.
You will be the canvas of my prose.
I’ll dip my pen into the ink of your eyes, and engrave myself onto your heart.