parasitic

i don’t like to dwell on it.

but.

when i pick them up, the knives are oddly familiar. i think they were pointed at me, once. blocking all the sunlight out of the meadow and streaming deep into me, linked and interlinked and woven together like the threads of fate, with just a little less gold.

it wasn’t important. 

the chains are invisible, no matter how long you look for them. the cut runs cold. your eyes might open but the lights stay dim. inactivity is the opposite of whatever lies in the depths of my soul but i told you. it’s cold. and when it’s cold, you don’t move. you stay quiet and you don’t move.

i don’t think about it.

sometimes, in the accident of cars driving past each other in a big city with two neighbours happening to ride side by side, that’s when it crosses my mind. mostly, i’m away from the crowds and alone in the woods with your shotgun. messing around with the safety and figuring out how to make sure it never works. 

you shouldn’t read this.

but if you did, you have to remember that i don’t dwell on it.

not the knives.

not the keys.

not the room.

not any of it.

you’re parasitic. and if white hot rage is what follows the cold then who am i to say no? 

call it an intervention. call it whatever you want. but that shotgun doesn’t exist anymore. i buried it in the lake and i kept you warm. red hot stone breathes life into summer. the wind will sweep right through us and i will take care of you.

[Image: a bonfire. Source: Lixi Jumu. Used with permission.]