she calls me

what she sees – what I am – what I’m not –

[Written on 10/10/2017]


He is greeted with a laugh much like a papillon lily, all brittle and fond and riding on a seafoam spool.

And he feels a finger rest on a collarbone-train – his (and that metrical pulse of his turns to wildfire again, ferriferous cord in a muffling, democratic dark—)

it’s mortifying, mortifying (for he whose eyes are spurned theatres, houses for a mortem daze in-the-futile-making—)  

It is mortifying and yet

“K-Kaede, I—”

“Shuichi.” She breathes back at last, shedding an aphrodisiac ghost onto the dainty knob of his Adam’s apple and it—unfurls like a lacewinged drug, bleeds selenic spiders by the sweet, sweet dozen along his moon-kissed, dour circuits-of-being (—they’re all but memorial grounds now, archaic home to crescent kisses and waning whispers and all lacrimal shards of testament to her, and her and her—)



The irregulars between them warp like innocuous mana, threatening a rupture in him of the gentlest ilk—already he is dangling like a calcifier’s puppet over her ethereal maw, promethean doll-legs crudely poised and aching for a white-rabbit spillage—

“—I   l   v  e y   

She murmurs, almost croaks—and in the morgue-full of his murky fathomings crawls a limping, threadbare sob and

—why of all people….would you

care to call me—

Anchor, croons the lonely, travelling finger, down a wan stretch of thigh to stir more frissons light as the fae. Truth.

Lies, the wormhole-vault in his ribcage mourns back, though he falls (typical) regardless – tangled softly by the heels into her angel’s mantra. Impostor.

he’s never deserved he’ll never deserve

— l  v   ”

The static bleats past his ears in a fraught finale and she- -he realizes that she

th—at angel’s mantra is g—

and the hangman tiptoes out a starry farewell, its organs retc
hing out a storm o
f plasmic kingdoms—
… qu     i  et   Q  u i-  –

Magenta snakes over the skin- -thorny splatter by splatter and

it is me. my supine codes
have failed you. i
; an algorithmic  b a star d   chi ld—

—gnaws away at the lunulae entombed in his irises, a harlequin foreboding armed with a
knife down the gullet

And in the hollows of his lungs, the programmed reapers yield their squalls, sickle-limbs flailing in the muffling, democratic dark as she topples—contents cascading down his calves and his industrial blue throat, and into those damaged keyholes-in-his-eyes that beat once, like mundane quartzes—(in the presence of her, but)

—now the puppet plummets endlessly
into a cradle spiked with tendoned vanes, bathed in

streaks of horror and horror and

gauze, and the parasitic memory of no more no m


she calls me—


—ton m—I t—ahw


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