I guess it's the hottest cancer everposted Aug 14th 2009, 3:09PM
Mood: Suicidal
Music: Our bodies get bigger but our hearts get torn up.
It asked me to put it down, so I've finally realized that the only real tragedy would be to not.
It asked me to put it down because it said that until I did, it would be trapped in here. Until I did it would never be free, and it wanted out as much as I wanted back in. I asked it if we could switch places. It told me it wouldn't be productive.
"If you don't," it asked, "what will happen when you die? Will we die too?"
Did I intend to kill us all?
And after that revelation I felt its gaze...shift into something I couldn't recognize. I was tired, I wanted to go home. I didn't want it to see me anymore. And I decided that I couldn't see it. I would hide. I've been hiding for years. It starts to waste away, but it's cancerous enough that as I die it grabs a firmer hold. This is the only comfort that I have. If I'm going to die, it won't be so bad if I die from it eating me. At least I was killed by something I loved.
And I would be lying if I said it's teeth sinking into me were anything less than a true manifestation of heaven.
I felt the light gathering at the back of my head, and I felt everything catch and hold its breath as it waited for the impact. Years later, everything is still waiting, still caught, and I feel the light growing hot on my neck. It starts to burn as it tells me that years from now, I will look back at this mistake with no more clarity than I have now. I'm supposed to see a level of irony in this, but all I see are its eyes glowing their painful green and I do not know what irony is anymore.
I want it, it tells me I can have it. Otherwise we'll all die here. If I take it, at least I can have it back after the bombs drop. Otherwise it's all for nothing.
I snatch at it with a greediness and urgency I didn't know I felt. I shove it in a pocket, still coveting it though I have it here now, with me, and it's mine. Now that I feel it I don't know what else to feel and it burns me through the fabric, and as it burns I can't help but know that it's slowly evaporating through holes I cannot see.
So now that it's mine, as badly as it hurts to share it, I have to put it down. As I start it grabs my hand, its slow fingers turn to claws, and I bleed onto the paper in front of me. I choke out a sound, enough to let it know the pain it causes me.
It doesn't release its hold. It never will.
If it ever does, if it grows silent, if it stops its laughter and retracts its claws and ugly scars are ever allowed to seal the wounds that remind me what I've got to do and what I'm here for, then I'll know that heaven is dead. Its absence, and my slow forgetfulness of what it ever was and that it ever existed, is the only possible hell.
The clear blood mixes with my red, creating a translucent pink before it sucks back into my body. I start to die. It laughs and the green of its eyes burn mine out and blind me, and as it draws me into itself I am relieved that I set it free before it could die. I feel myself breaking down and forming the first molecules that will become its flesh, and I am happy. It is all I ever wanted to be. The feigned light it exudes as it becomes a man tells me that I am not needed anymore.
The young reverses nature as it eats its own mother, and the mother is happy because it is in love with its young. The Knight of Swords has slain the Empress.
No one mourns, instead, they are all killed by the beauty of the Knight.
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