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the splinters that you carry

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So, how does it go?

Fire with fire, an eye for an eye, you and me and me and you.

I have never loved you more than this moment.

I have never hated you more than this moment.


There are six things running through my mind right now. Four of them are too fleeting to pin down, the fifth is your selfishness and the sixth is that song you hum sometimes. Taylor Swift. I tease you for it, you laugh, I laugh, you call it musical appreciation that I’m too uncultured to invest in.


You’re dying and I swear I didn’t mean to do it. Swear on that ugly blue coat in your closet, on the absentminded way you cut up a capsicum two days ago in our new kitchen.

There’s blood. So much of it. Who’s surprised? Not me. Not you, although your face is inexplicably screwed up in confusion.


Sometimes I smooth out the crinkle over your nose and you kiss me. Do I forgive you for the way it crinkled when you called your boss yesterday? Called them, said hello, it’s me, Eve Polastri, I finally have someone you might be interested in arresting.


I always thought Greece was too lovely for someone like you. Blue and white, lacking all the red and black and rudeness that you love so much. My mistake for bringing us here.

My mistake for thinking a bridge at night meant matching wedding rings and undying loyalty. My mistake for thinking the way you kissed me when I cried when we fucked for the first time was real.

My mistake for ever looking at you, for ever loving you, for ever letting you love me back.


So, where are we?

Yes, knife in your chest cavity. Two things I want to do: kiss your panting mouth, lie down curled up around you, let Caroline or Konstantin or MI6 or The Twelve take me away. Drag my listless body, demon-less, love-less, away from you. The second is to cut you open further, serrated knife between your ribs, carved open like the bag of blood I’ve been told you are. Let you eat me alive, you dead.


We have killed each other, finally.

See, I knew we would do it someday. I will leave your bright-red body on my favourite carpet and wash up and swallow the cyanide in my expensive mahogany cupboard.


I’ve never been one to dream.

(That’s a lie. I once dreamt you would do crosswords with me every morning on our dining table and say honey, I’m home and love me till there was no me left.)

But, if I did dream, it would be of hands gripping hands in a world beyond this, removed of our violence and fucked up relationships with love and blood.


If I were one to indulge in dreams, I’d dream that you are whispering don’t forget me or don’t let go right now. Instead, you smile weakly (so weak, it’s barely an admission of a smile, you’ve always hated your admissions) and lie through your teeth.

You say, I didn’t mean to do it and I say, yes, you did and you say okay.


So, how does it go?

Look, we consumed each other before we got old. Nine days since the bridge. All we lasted.

The song still runs through my head. Chorus building up when I swallow poison and die so slowly. Eight feet from your body. The two of us, resting, finally.


Admit one thing, though?


It was kind of nice.