I sleep. I dream.
I make up things that I would never say.
I say them very quietly.
— richard siken —
/
you are standing at the hull of a boat.
again.
prince, exile, traitor:
hate enters your throat
and suffocates you.
it's a funny story, except the earth is
beating & the sky is trembling & the ocean
is shaking beneath your struggling feet.
poor boy, with the palace &
the gold & the love — except —
your palace is carved out of
bones & blood & skin
and your stomach turns itself apart
when you stand your ground
and set yourself aflame
your gold is built upon
tanks & metal & flames
and you can see your cousin
in your mind's eye when
you see a wall falling down
your love was a fever dream made of
mother & father & azula
and you can feel the sun across
your almost blind visage as
you realize that you have nothing.
you realize this: you never did.
(that boy
on that boat,
shooting sparks
and holding maps:
you miss him.)
/
you are standing in front of your people.
finally.
this time your skin
is burning with exhilaration &
you smile.
you have to. this is not
a funny story. this is the
end of a war. you're hilarious.
there is a palace behind your shoulder,
a courtyard burned with the remnants
of what could have been love, and
you have lost everything for the gold crown
weighing down your head.
/
how much can you change and get away with it,
before you turn into someone else,
before it's some kind of murder?
— richard siken —