I can tell you that I love you how ever many times you want, sing it like a litany and a leitmotif in your presence, but there's no veracity inherent in repetition. I cannot learn an emotion like a nineteenth century schoolboy, reciting the Iliad again and again until it comes out perfect, every meter of every verse. But I can say the words if they'll make your eyes slip shut in pleasure and relief, sigh and let your shoulders drop. If I say I love you, then you are safe, you will insist.
But monsters like me don't feel emotions like humans - like you. You can run your palms along my skin and prick yourself on my thorns, and I can marvel at how velvet soft your flesh feels beneath my lips, but I'll always have fangs where you have teeth, and I'll always be hungry where you might be sated. I can tell you that I love you, with forked tongue and golden claws hooked into vulnerable meat. It won't even be a lie - but it can never be strictly true.
And if there are nights where you marvel, I have tamed the beast, as I lay stretched out and bloody at your feet, then that deception is all on you. I will wear the mask you give me, let you fuss with feathers and fine fabrics, dress me up like the solicitous romantic you've always wanted, serenade you with a script you wrote. They will only ever be words and stage directions to me, quietly stalking you through the forest of your illusions and waiting for you to stumble.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)