Monday 13 March 2017

Anticlimactic Suffering

I shouldn't talk to you anymore.

Drawing the curtains up every morning and arranging fresh sacrificial flowers in the vase by your bed breaks my sanity. Each time I bend down to dry the condensation on your forehead, I come too close to the face I cannot read, one that reminds me of my incompetence and disgust. Then I plant a soft kiss on your forehead and greet you, good morning, asking if you had slept well, if the light that is coming in this morning isn't too strong. My intentions are hidden behind the proper code of conduct.

Proper? Why bother keeping up appearances even now? Ha-ha.

Freshly baked bread, there you go; eat up.

Excuse me.

Then the evening comes and I let myself in again. I pull up a chair and sit by the bed, acknowledging the distance that needs to be kept. Smiling at you, out of habit, I ask about your day and prattle on about mine, my hands folded on my lap.

Laughter.

I pace around the lone chair I have been sitting on.

"I'm tired, I don't want to do this anymore..."

So soon... Wird alles gut...

痛い痛い痛い痛い痛い痛い痛い痛い痛い痛い痛い痛い痛い痛い痛い痛い痛い痛い痛い痛い痛い痛い痛い痛い痛い痛い痛い痛い痛い痛い痛い痛い痛い痛い痛い痛い痛い痛い痛い痛い痛い痛い痛い痛い痛い痛い痛い痛い痛い痛い痛い痛い痛い痛い痛い痛い痛い痛い痛い痛い

With violence and in heated confusion, I grab hold of your shoulders, shaking you back and forth. I scream at you without words, hoping that the breaking of my voice could articulate better the state of my deteriorating soul. Would they reach you, the commotion? Not that it matters.

I slap you, repeatedly.

Sigh.

Holding you close, I console you with the rhythmic pat of my hand, whispering dreams into your ears. My embrace tightens, so much that I am holding my breath. Then we lie down together, with my head on your chest, your hand on my head.

Laughter.

What kind of game are we playing?

I get on top of you, lowering myself so that cheeks home to stinging rivulets may meet. Maybe I curl my lips to touch yours, without shame. It's all the same.

I apologise.

I've dug myself in too many holes...

Has the love subsided? Not that it matters, since it's all the same.

Plunging the knife into your chest is my salvation. To turn into foam for the better of our days or to live on drowned in blood that cannot be washed away, it is clear which path I should choose.

Laughter.

Again and again I pull the knife out of your punctured body only to stick it back in, regret and guilt overflowing from both our wounds. What am I purging, who am I purging? Stab. Stab. Stab. You have already been dead for so long, so who am I purging, what am I purging?

I tell you I'm tired and that we should rest.

Hold me... I'm drowning... Hold me...

And we both drown in Inferno.

Will the new dawn ever come?








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