#1506

If I think about myself as I am
a girl who’s always anxious
who speaks too loudly
who cries too often
who is graceless and tactless and intense
I fear I will be too much for you
that I will push you from my side
I wish instead I was the moon
sharp and radiant and cold
dressed in light and shadow
for as the moon I might pull at your heart
knowing you cannot resist the dance
knowing you must always follow me across the sky
faithful sun drawn in the the wake of your moon

#1505

In the night she asks, “Why did you make me your champion?” and all the answers that come to mind are dissimulation. But she knows me too well to deceive her and so I answer honestly. “Because you are nothing,” I say. “You are no one. You have no name; Mage isn’t your real name, and even the first name I had for you is no longer yours. You are nameless, homeless, ageless. That makes you freer than us. Tanim and Daren are bound by who, by what, they are; the Sun and Moon, brothers and lovers. I am bound by who I am and always will be; my name is not so easily cast aside as yours was. Yet you cannot be bound by anything now. You’re free. That’s why it must be you. That’s why I need you.” I lay in the dark for a while, then add, “I’m sorry. I don’t think I meant it to be this way. It’s just, we all have roles to play. This is yours.” She doesn’t reply. I don’t think she minds, though. She’s walked so many roads for me, and this is just another. Really, I chose her because she has always been my champion. That is who she is.

#1503

If you are any city, you’re New York Las VegasAngeles Soddom Gotham every city that runs on vice, every city full of dark alleys and broken glass, every city that smells like cigarettes and old whiskey and desperate sex, anonymous sex, bruising sex, that doesn’t want to know your name or your secrets because here you’re no one, you have no past and no future, you are every city where the nights last for years and the days taste like yesterday’s hangover.

#1502

If you’re any city, you’re Pripyat, city of dust and shadows, of crumbling walls and ghosts in filmy windows, a city so long abandoned it feels unreal, impossible, frozen in the second the world went wrong, an unwanted reminder of there-but-for-the-grace-of-God-go-we, and yet still some brave souls cling to your outskirts, desperate to remain in the place they once loved, to eke out a meager life beside you, even as your corruption slowly alters them from the inside out.

#1500

This no longer feels like an old religion, like bonfires and incantations and ashes smeared on moonlit skin, like wood and bone and stone, no, no, that primal power has bled out on unconsecrated earth and this feels like new religion, like empty words and empty songs and empty altars, like a god who turns away his face and allows others to speak for him because he really couldn’t give a shit, he’s been at this for so long and what’s another thousand years without miracles, they keep on believing no matter what, and fuck you if that’s what you think because I can’t remember the last time the sky lit on fire or all the tongues of men were turned to gibberish and I’d give anything, anything, for another apocalyptic flood to come roaring in and wipe it all away, remake the face of the earth itself so I must relearn how to walk in an unfriendly wasteland, that’s my kind of religion, the kind with destruction and recreation, with retribution and jealousy, cause when’s the last time you coveted me?

That’s what I thought.