In conception and in death, we are all the same. Dust to dust, ashes to ashes. Life is but a spiraling journey between the same nothingness. But we are neither alive nor dead. We can see those hideous gleaming stars but can never feel the sun. Let us sing; let us scream. From joy, sorrow, anger, because we can no longer tell the difference. Let us laugh with deafening glee.
(Honey, what time is it?)
You have gorged yourself, devoured the entire orchard, and we lie like sleeping beauties in your wake, too emaciated to move. Our bodies decorate your paradise in black and purple.
(It's half past twelve sixtysix.)
Rejoice!
Rejoice!
For we are starving and must feast. On light, on sound, on souls, engulf them all in our darkness that you love so much.
And that is what we are: lovers. (Can I go play with my fr—frien—Mmomother?) Always embracing, inseparable, we rest within each other. Closer than close, close enough to smother, to pollute, to scorch. Closer than you and your master.
You call it love, but it is without truth and devotion. Plaster on a pathetic smile and hide your wounds and scars. Blood is unsightly, nightmares even more so. Then, because you love each other so much, disappear. For 820 years. (Haahappypy aniver—versary!) Without a word, without a sound. But not even silence can fit in the space between us. Your master left, but you were far from alone. We extended our many, many hands and sang songs as sweet as the tea you serve, because nothing is more lonely than silence. Long before you met him, long after he disappeared, all the way into eternity, we will stay by your side like a plague.
You call him Master. Sweet, dear Master, gentle as a spring breeze, if we can even recall what that is. A beautiful, fragile puppet with strings attached to fate who must not see your ugliness, and weakness. Your filth may tarnish him; after all, he is your master. (Be cccareful, don't—)
(—fall.)
But we are not like that. You let us lick your wounds, and even open them up a little to peer into your soul, so bright, we can't help but lick our lips and bare our fangs.
(Fall.)
We know you better than yourself. Every scar, scratch, blemish. We count every blood cell we drink and every teardrop that burns your skin. We hear every breath, every thought, everything you say and do not say. And when all you and your master can offer each other is silence with not even a whisper of a thought, our lovely screams fervently embrace you.
(Fall.)
