you love him
sun and moon
dawn after dawn
in storms and snow
you still love him
he still doesn’t know
(you wouldn’t allow);

you love him
like a silent prayer
from a lonely youth
an ever-lasting need
(now and again)
for family
for truth;

you love him
and the last breath you take
before the night comes
(before you close your eyes
one last time)
is his name or the hope
for calling him home
(“calling him mine”);

you love him
your rough fingers
wrapped around
the trigger like your legs
had once been curled
around his scarred back
(there’s still satisfaction,
everything’s intact);

you love him
but your teeth nipping
at his lower lip
hurt more than the shots
to his chest
and the knife
in his back
(you can still taste the blood,
looking at the wounds
what have you done?
it’s still on your hands);

you love him
stardust and iron
fire and earth
wrapped around each other
tangled in misery
in regret
in hurt;

you love him
you show him
poison and alcohol
burn at your throat
(it’s all the same, all the same
doesn’t even matter
which reaches your heart first)
he doesn’t believe you
tries to forget
and fails
(do you feel content
or upset?)
(no, all you feel is thirst);

you love him
in the early morning
at the end of day
you still love him
without him knowing
without a say
(and you need it
to remain this way).

she breaks,
she kneels,
she falls,
she bleeds,
and where are you?

everywhere
and
nowhere,
wherever
but not there
(guilt becomes another monster
you have to fight alone)

and you didn’t, you couldn’t
save her, come clean
(she didn’t need to be saved
is what she’ll tell you later,
with poison in her eyes like
you’ve never even seen);

and she learns the truth,
she thinks she understands,
she thinks she knows
exactly how it went - 
how you didn’t even try to fight
and why you weren’t by her side
why your arms weren’t cradling
her breathless frame,
(you don’t have her,
you don’t have her,
and you have no one
but yourself to blame)
oh, child, she believes
you’ve put a bullet in her gut
and so she cuts and cuts
and cuts until it hurts;

you escape one nightmare and go back to another
in which she lays on the ground, drained of all color:

she breathes
(once)
she crawls
(drop your weapons)
she hurts
(those bleeding wounds)
she cries
(a thousand blinding suns)
she’s gone
(and you haven’t slept since)

so who could blame Orpheus?
the poor fool went to hell and back
to see his lover’s eyes again,
well, you certainly couldn’t
for a moment ago you were holding onto death’s hand
(her scarlet blood on yours disappearing in the dark).

nine days
of echoes in my ears
water rushes in

nine whole days
“what if”-s and “if only”-s
a deafening scream

nine
louder than silence
“what if you don’t make it?”
“if only you do”

nine
(bloody)
days
(i miss you)
(come back)
“please let me show you”
“you’re more than that”

nine
“what if i’d told you”
“if only i had”

nine
in the arms of the ocean
breathing for two

nine
i can’t go in anymore
even ankle-deep

nine
because the arms of the ocean
stole you from me

nine
we’re both suffocating
i’m afraid to swim again

let her go,
set her free,
remove her chains,
they’re meant for me;
let her run,
let her flee,
she saw the monster
inside,
let her run
and hide;

give her the guns,
give her the knives,
and all the weapons
that she despises;
arm her to the teeth,
dress her in black
once you make a
perfect little warrior
out of her,
there’ll be no going back;

put the matches
in her hand
and the fire
in her eyes,
put her on the
top shelf,
a soldier in disguise
ready for a war
she doesn’t want to be
a part of;

take a step aside,
look at her,
look what you’ve done,
is this the inhuman
she’d wanted to become?
you gave her an army,
placed her on a straw throne
when all she was looking for
was a place to call
home

let her put away
the shining armor,
lift her heavy weight
that’s made her bitter,
harder;
remove her chains
set her free,
if you wouldn’t do it
for her
at least let (her come back to) me;

and if you ever hear
of the black sea
they’ll tell you it’s been named
for all the men that lost their lives
for they’re all victims that she’s lured
into her arms and a veil of gentle breeze
has been set upon to keep them warm
at nights in which she feels alone;

and if you ever hear
of the black sea
know that he named it
after the lost lives
and the storms in her eyes
for the oceans were oh so wide
and he wanted to keep her secret buried
on the land, in the sand, deep inside;

and when they mention
to you the black sea
you’ll know that it was named
for the color of the sky(e)s when she bled
inside his bed, where she drew her last breath
where her heavy bones turned to foam
and when he carried her back home
the weight of her, the weight of water
sank into his skin as he swam
deep water to send her away
she’s already gone,
already mourned;

(and if they ever try to tell you
the story of the black sea,
tell them it holds colors
they’ve never even seen,
tell them of the raging storms
and lightnings and fires within,
of the blood and the tears of
the sirens and witches and kings,
tell them for they should know
of all that lives by the shore.)

first; 
when after weeks of harshness
you finally get the faintest of smiles from him,
when he carefully wraps you in bandages
protecting you from nothing really but yourself,
when his gentle caress assures you more
than any gun or weapon ever could,
it’s when you begin to realize what a family really is
and see all that it gives you (all that he’d do for you),
that you want to say “thank you,”
“i’ll look out for you, as well”
(less or more than a friend);

second;
when you’re dying at the hands
of the real world’s monsters and beasts
and you’re bleeding innocent young blood
it’s like his world comes crashing down
at merely a touch, and everything
around him turns to ruins and dust,
he wants to say so many things:
(and not just the unwritten,
unspoken “what if”-s;)
why he feels like the god of lies
(because he betrays your trust)
or that someday he won’t
be able to look you in the eyes
(at least not without wanting to
go back and start over, again),  
and others he’s not sure
he’s capable of pronouncing
but the most important one  -  
he can’t lose you too,
it’s as simple as that;

third;
when your bullet holes ached a bit too much
and your healing battle scars craved for a touch
when the shivers down your spine traveled all the way
inside your soul and left you sickeningly cold
it was when he smiled so warmly that it was like
the sun had rose especially for you and
the ice from your skin melted instantly;
it was when you should’ve told him
you wanted him around a bit more often
(to feel the heat inside a lot more often);

fourth;
you look him tenderly in the eyes
and say you see the good in him
and he’s so honestly surprised
thinking that it might actually exist
that you might be the one to bring the light
to his otherwise dark and clouded life;
in which moment do you think
he should’ve confessed that your love
had become his very favorite thing
about himself and that every time
you put your arms around him  
he slowly healed, piece by piece?
(do you think he knew how blessed he was?)
(do you think he could ever forget?);

fifth;
you throw words like rocks at each other
and they hurt like sharpened knives
to your guts and to your heart and
the worst is not the blinding pain
but you trying to convince yourself
that you don’t love him anymore
and you hate him with everything you are
and him believing you
but you yourself - not.

sleeping beauty
kissed you on the neck
brushed the poison from her lips
and murmured to herself
as you stumbled in her feet:no more dreaming of the dead
as if you’re not the one
who took away their breath;
and if her love was flaming, venomous red, 
then she was all scarlet-dressed,
straying in the woods,
leaving crimson trails,
looking for a victim
or
searching for a shelter,
hiding from the waves,
rushing waves of loneliness
that draw her,
that drown her,
that took away
everything
and no one,
nothing
and everyone
and her.

but then you saw her
hiding in the mist
(the sea of solitude
swallowed you whole)
and god,
did she suck the life from you
(but not the light,
heavens, she was the light)
and god,
did it feel good;
then she looked you
dead in the eye,
asked you:
“do you have
a death wish?”
“are you really ready
to say goodbye?”
“should I seal
your will with a kiss?”
but words were above you
and instead of a yes
you took her hand and ran
where? oh, where else if not
away from that cursed mess

 
but most curses can’t be escaped,
not then, now or ever;
a life from the living,
a kiss,
a death from the dead;
the poison leaves with her,
nothing is ever again red.

first;
you pick him up from the ground
battered and in pieces
and you recognize the bruises,
the ones you left behind
you stitch the cuts and open wounds
but you’re not allowed to go any further,
you’ve lost that right a long time ago
when he gave you pieces of his soul
and you threw them back at him
and instead gave him bullet holes;
and he shivers under your touch,
is it the sweet sensation?
the ghost of your fingers over his skin,
(it’s like centuries have passed since he’s felt
such tenderness from anyone, really);
or is he just afraid that you’ll hurt him again,
without a sign, without a warning?
he’s so wary of you it kills you
to think what you did to him broke him in two,
at least you have the courage to clean after yourself,
oh, what a mess you’ve both made, it’s all gone to hell;

second;
he owes you nothing, he’s said as much
and you understood him, you learned your lesson,
so then why are you knocking on his door,
standing in the rain? hoping for a miracle,
a cure, something to take away the pain?
they’ve left you all alone, called you a beast,
a monster, brought you on your knees
(and you thought you had their trust),
locked you in a cage, drowning in your fears
refused to let you go so you had time to remember
the other prisoner you kept in there -
the one who turned paper into knife
and tried to escape his so-called life,
the one who ran at walls, maybe trying to fly?
(maybe trying to die? perhaps he was already
half inside his grave when you dug further into it)
yes, you wonder about him and if nothing else,
if nothing else is right ever
at least you could be monsters together
(for a moment it sounded so appealing,
so comforting - the idea to belong
that you missed the part where you
swam through the fire to go to him,
it somehow didn’t feel wrong)
he stares at you for a second too long
reaches for your face and a moment too late
comes to himself and lets you utter
“you’re the only one who’ll understand”
and you believe he does because
those are not raindrops on his face
that he tries to cover with his hand
over his mouth, he invites you inside
and god it’s so warm you can only pray
that he’ll someday allow you to call it home
(he does, without a second thought);

third;
you forgave him, gods, you forgave him in a breath
you forgave him for everything he did
and everything he said,
right then and there, when his pale bloody skin
touched the ground you walked on, that opened at your feet,
the instance your back was turned to his almost lifeless figure
and the guilt corrupted your soul, poisoned your mind,
made you twice as bitter, but somehow opened your eyes
and made you realize that the real monsters weren’t neither him nor you
but the people who shaped you into what you became and forced you to do
what you were both so against, how could they? how could you
believe so blindly? it was anyway too good to be true;

last;
he forgives you too
(you’re not sure why
but maybe he’s not yet ready
to tell you goodbye).

first;
you pick him up from the ground
battered and in pieces
and you recognize the bruises,
the ones you left behind
you stitch the cuts and open wounds
but you’re not allowed to go any further,
you’ve lost that right a long time ago
when he gave you pieces of his soul
and you threw them back at him
and instead gave him bullet holes;
and he shivers under your touch,
is it the sweet sensation?
the ghost of your fingers over his skin,
(it’s like centuries have passed since he’s felt
such tenderness from anyone, really);
or is he just afraid that you’ll hurt him again,
without a sign, without a warning?
he’s so wary of you it kills you
to think what you did to him broke him in two,
at least you have the courage to clean after yourself,
oh, what a mess you’ve both made, it’s all gone to hell;

second;
he owes you nothing, he’s said as much
and you understood him, you learned your lesson,
so then why are you knocking on his door,
standing in the rain? hoping for a miracle,
a cure, something to take away the pain?
they’ve left you all alone, called you a beast,
a monster, brought you on your knees
(and you thought you had their trust),
locked you in a cage, drowning in your fears
refused to let you go so you had time to remember
the other prisoner you kept in there -
the one who turned paper into knife
and tried to escape his so-called life,
the one who ran at walls, maybe trying to fly?
(maybe trying to die? perhaps he was already
half inside his grave when you dug further into it)
yes, you wonder about him and if nothing else,
if nothing else is right ever
at least you could be monsters together
(for a moment it sounded so appealing,
so comforting - the idea to belong
that you missed the part where you
swam through the fire to go to him,
it somehow didn’t feel wrong)
he stares at you for a second too long
reaches for your face and a moment too late
comes to himself and lets you utter
“you’re the only one who’ll understand”
and you believe he does because
those are not raindrops on his face
that he tries to cover with his hand
over his mouth, he invites you inside
and god it’s so warm you can only pray
that he’ll someday allow you to call it home
(he does, without a second thought);

third;
you forgave him, gods, you forgave him in a breath
you forgave him for everything he did
and everything he said,
right then and there, when his pale bloody skin
touched the ground you walked on, that opened at your feet,
the instance your back was turned to his almost lifeless figure
and the guilt corrupted your soul, poisoned your mind,
made you twice as bitter, but somehow opened your eyes
and made you realize that the real monsters weren’t neither him nor you
but the people who shaped you into what you became and forced you to do
what you were both so against, how could they? how could you
believe so blindly? it was anyway too good to be true;

 last;
he forgives you too
(you’re not sure why
but maybe he’s not yet ready
to tell you goodbye).

first; 
when after weeks of harshness
you finally get the faintest of smiles from him,
when he carefully wraps you in bandages
protecting you from nothing really but yourself,
when his gentle caress assures you more
than any gun or weapon ever could,
it’s when you begin to realize what a family really is
and see all that it gives you (all that he’d do for you),
that you want to say “thank you,”
“i’ll look out for you, as well”
(less or more than a friend);

second;
when you’re dying at the hands
of the real world’s monsters and beasts
and you’re bleeding innocent young blood
it’s like his world comes crashing down
at merely a touch, and everything
around him turns to ruins and dust,
he wants to say so many things:
(and not just the unwritten,
unspoken “what if”-s;)
why he feels like the god of lies
(because he betrays your trust)
or that someday he won’t
be able to look you in the eyes
(at least not without wanting to
go back and start over, again),  
and others he’s not sure
he’s capable of pronouncing
but the most important one  -  
he can’t lose you too,
it’s as simple as that;

third;
when your bullet holes ached a bit too much
and your healing battle scars craved for a touch
when the shivers down your spine traveled all the way
inside your soul and left you sickeningly cold
it was when he smiled so warmly that it was like
the sun had rose especially for you and
the ice from your skin melted instantly;
it was when you should’ve told him
you wanted him around a bit more often
(to feel the heat inside a lot more often);

fourth;
you look him tenderly in the eyes
and say you see the good in him
and he’s so honestly surprised
thinking that it might actually exist
that you might be the one to bring the light
to his otherwise dark and clouded life;
in which moment do you think
he should’ve confessed that your love
had become his very favorite thing
about himself and that every time
you put your arms around him  
he slowly healed, piece by piece?
(do you think he knew how blessed he was?)
(do you think he could ever forget?);

fifth;
you throw words like rocks at each other
and they hurt like sharpened knives
to your guts and to your heart and
the worse is not the blinding pain
but you trying to convince yourself
that you don’t love him anymore
and you hate him with everything you are
and him believing you
but you yourself - not.