I want to reach gently, but my hands only know how to bruise. I want to eat, but my mouth is sewn shut. Hunger has learned to feed on me instead. I want to speak, but my throat is raw. My words forget the way your name sounds.
MOUNT OLYMPUS IS NOW OPEN!
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There are things the mind learns before it has built shelves to keep them on, left scattered across the floor for years, tripped over in the dark. Eventually, you stop asking who left them there.
You bring the knife to my heart with such tenderness that I mistake cruelty for love every single time. And still, I’d clasp your hand in mine and guide the blade deeper myself, if it meant keeping you close for just a little while longer.