#1967

He waits. The shards of glass have glittered like snow on the white carpet for five months now; he steps around them without thought as he paces. Sometimes he still purposefully treads on one to feel the bright, sharp pain travel up through his foot, to leave a few more bloodstains in the wreckage. He hasn’t even bothered to replace the shattered glass tumblers, instead drinking his liquor out of a coffee mug or straight from the bottle. He’s stopped bothering with an ash tray, too, and the cigarette butts leave little burn marks where they fall from idle hands. He doesn’t care. The one he loves will return to him, he is certain of this despite their parting words, the broken glass and passing months. The one he loves will return to him and so he must be here, cleansed by his penitence and proven faithful by his stasis. So, he waits.

#1965

Love lies at the end of a knife blade, the culmination of all you ever wanted to share with your beloved, beautiful red pain blossoming up around that sweet spot just below the sternum, and finally he sees the world you’ve made for him, for you both, finally he understands the language your love speaks in pain and punishment and the patience to lead him inexorably to this moment of final, total clarity, his surrender in your arms the last step in the dance of your own design, and you will be called madmen but that is because only you can see the beauty in a love this red.

#1958

Life is one long slippery slope. I started at the top, but from the first my stance was shaky. I slid so early so easily and never managed to climb back up more than an inch – and that just to fall again anyway. Drinking to smoking to injecting, kissing to fucking to binding, it’s all downhill. Melancholy to misery to madness. Love to obsession to hatred. I’m not sure I’ll even know when I’ve hit the bottom; will it feel any different than where I am now?

The first time I made him bleed, I thought I would kill myself rather than live with the guilt. But I didn’t, and the second time that guilt weighed a little less on my shoulders. I barely felt it at all the third time; he knew the possibility was there, he could have prevented it had he truly wanted to. My point is, none of those instances felt like rock bottom. Maybe nothing will, until the time I unwrap my hands from his neck and he lays still and silent. I thought love might be the thing with which I’d climb back up that slope, but I was wrong. If anything, it only accelerated my descent.

#1954 – Summer Solstice

The apple. The pomegranate. His hand.

The dance.

Chest to chest, hip to hip as if one heartbeat, as if one breath
(step, turn, step)
hand to the small of the back and fingers trailing over stiff linen
(step, turn, dip)
and then the bite of the blade, too sharp to even hurt
(step, turn, step)
red drops on white carpet, rose petal wrists
(step, turn, step)
arm sliding around narrow waist, mouths bruising
(step)
then the blade to bare throat with merciful speed
(turn)
and gentle hands amid the red river
(dip)
lay him down.

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[ Read the other solstice fragments. ]

#1950

I know the things you call him when he is too far gone to argue. Angel, when you’re wiping blood from his mouth. Lovely, when you’re lifting his limp body off the bathroom floor. Darling, when you’re holding him until the trembling stops. Baby, when his eyes are bleak and far away and you aren’t sure if you’ll get him back this time. But always, at the end, just Daren. Daren, when you’re trying to wake him. Daren, when your hands are shaking too badly to find a pulse. Daren, when there’s nothing more you can do but weep.

#1946

I wish
I knew whether you speak to me in memories
or metaphors
I dream
reek of burning feathers, scorched flesh
the weight of you in his arms
the slow seep of the unhealing wound
I dream
he kisses your cracked lips, feverish skin
murmurs against your breast an ancient name
that tastes of coals and blood
I wish
I knew when you speak truth
and when you speak lies
I wish
I knew whether you are cruel or merely
unfathomable

#1945

Tanim says I love you without words; he knows the man he loves doesn’t want to hear it. Instead, he says it with a cup of coffee, black, no sugar. He says it with a proffered cigarette. He says it with arms that know when to hold – and, more importantly, when to let go. He says it in the way he waits out the storm. He says it with his mouth, hot and eager, and in the way he so willingly surrenders. He says it with broken glass and used needles. He says it with his anger, his fear, his possessiveness; he says it with his misery, his patience, his longing. He says it in the way he asks nothing of his companion and yet offers everything. Tanim says I love you with every moment he allows love to bleed him, and with every day that he watches the thing he loves fade.