I wanted my kisses to be your cure, my tongue the catheter that drains your blood of it’s poisons, and overthrows the soldiers of plague that storm your bones like a battlefield. I wanted to turn you inside out, scrape out the swallowed promises and prayers from the mossy pediment of your lungs and fetter the severed arteries that had you bleeding from the mouth. Words you didn’t mean, or at least, words you didn’t want to.
I wanted to hoist apart my ribcage, dredge up the cold cadaver of my heart, resurrect it from the burial chamber of my chest. I wanted to give it to you. Let it pump life into the pulmonary artifacts that awaken your heart, let it sustain you, where it could not me.
Instead you dig in, devour, and depredate it.
Use it as kindling for the fire that deters the tenebrae, in the crumbling architecture of your soul, use it to eschew from your gods and worship yourself, use it to enshrine your own altar. Use it for all your own selfish needs and raptures, but to conclude your liturgy, use my ashes to salt the demons in your bones.
They were never knocking at your door, they’ve already made you their home.
― Aimée. L. Postle, “Honour me last”