Spelled In Blood

We will be spelled in blood. Who thinks thoughts like that outside of moments like this? When the darkness is so spectacular. When, if I couldn't feel you, I wouldn't even know you were there. We will be spilled in blood. Catastrophic blood, gathering blood, blood like perfume and the particular puff of your lip and the way you're not even a person behind the skin of your face. I'm a person. I am one. singular. person melting like a pillar candle in the dark of this room. I don't even know what color your sheets are. We will be spilled in blood but it's happening on the inside, where no one can see it collect. I will be spilled in blood because I know you like me that way. But I'm not here for that reason, axe man, syphoning man, empty-behind-your-face-and-up-your-arms man. I'm not here because I know you only like the spilled blood version of me. I'm here because I can't stop bleeding on my inside anyway. Doesn't really matter where I eviscerate, does it? Where I pool? Under who's hands? You were the first person to come at me with such bad intentions, such selfish intentions, but not the last.

How have I managed to maintain my light? That . . . light switch that refuses to stay down no matter how many times it's been turned down. We will be spelled in blood. This is the way that I'll remember us. No daylight needed or remembered. No color. Just emptiness of color. Just rooms devoid. Corners gnawing and beckoning and threatening and beckoning. We will be spelled in blood and eventually I'll do something beautiful with it. I'll make something beautiful of it. But I hope you know, the way I think you knew then, that my ability to make beauty from this blood has nothing to do with you.