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my gentlest friend, it is your favorite pastime to kill me again and again and again. unwitting sadist, you. i croon for your marks and claws. may you never know. yours, so long as you will have me.

my fist has always been clenched around the handle of an invisible suitcase. i am always ready to leave. there is not a single room in this world where i belong.

"what was it like? how'd you survive all this?" "who said i did?"

it's always been my brother and i. i took care of him, taught him what it meant to be a man. once, he'd slipped and called me 'dad.' i'd wept quietly that night, not knowing if it was because i knew i'd never hear it again, or for mourning the loss of my childhood.

battle is a dance, and the fortunate find their partner.

there are avenging angels, that rain down sulfur and fire from the Lord. "rejoice with Him, O heavens, for He will avenge the blood of His children and take righteous vengeance on His adversaries." they're still angels. maybe that's what you are for me.

the man who so covets you has done unspeakable things. the very same warm, vibrant eyes you so adore, have been cold for those who'd seen them one moment, and been dead the next.

my hands, in truth, are pure filth when they reach for another hand to hold. there is shame in my hesitance, not shyness. my hesitation is solely born out of masking my greed.

is it a wolf i hear, howling his lonely communion with the unpiloted stars, or merely the self importance and servitude in the bark of a dog?

and i hunger for the rot i know is inside you. i will peel away each of your layers, until i reach the fruit of my labors.

and you? i know you better than you know yourself. there is no you without me. i may as well be the marrow down in your bones. snap them. see for yourself. but you won't, because you're scared, you're a coward, and you need me to be right.

tell me i'm a bad man, kick me like a stray.

i can't help it, letting you keep doing this to me, when it's my blood that paints your lips. my blood, it's mine. mine, mine.

the dark is generous, and it is patient. it is the dark that seeds cruelty into justice, that drips contempt into compassion, that poisons love with grains of doubt. the dark can be patient, because the slightest drop of rain will cause those seeds to sprout.

years since, and i'm still that sentimental, old dog, waiting to catch your scent at the door.

but the sweetest sound, / the snap of my bird-bones beneath your maws, brittle wings disconnecting / at the joint. handsome gun-dog.

death at the gates again. howling my name. can't greet you today, i have a war to win.

the instinct of violence curls inside us like a parasite, waiting for a chance to feed on our rage and multiply until it bursts out of us.

you're not listening. there is no honor or glory to be won in war. one day you will stare down at shoes smaller than the palm of your hand, initials painted into soles, left behind amongst the rubble. and you will remember those initials the whole of your life. wondering.

there's no such thing as fighting dirty. you fight, and you survive, or you don't. there is no other end to it.