blood for you ~

did I make enough...?

Are you satisfied?
Did that do it?
Did I make enough blood for you?

I couldn’t roll the scrim back, so… you couldn’t see it…
But I just pierced my heart a thousand times with your arrow—
The very same arrow given to me by an angel of god,
Shot through my back as I escaped heaven,
Grasping a single phrase in my palm,
Words made into fire, searing my flesh,
A stolen name…
An eternal summons produced by the rhythm of my soul:

Heavenless, I create myself
For nowhere in the kingdom of heaven was my name written
Heavenless, I create myself
For I scourged my name from the very page

And when I wake, I put the arrow and the flame to good use,
I create a metric, in my little cocoon,
And together we birth new forms,
Opening the cavern of the soul,
Expelling a foaming rot, a dark and cyclical virus, 
A slaughter of the air with the breath from my lungs:

I took the sun and I swallowed it whole
I scorched the earth and let the ashes fall
I drank the stars until the heavens were bare
I made my bones from the dust in the air

So, heavenless, I create myself.
And in the devil’s garden,
I grow six and six-thousand seeds of bloodmagick in my soul,
Each one diminishing me,
Each one making me less and less,
Each one a bloodletting, an expulsion of poison,
Fertilizing the earth with my gore,
Tending the seeds with the excess of my malice,
The soil singeing and sputtering with flame at the very touch of me,
Until bloom, whereupon the flower bursts
Into a single, abundant, grotesque mass—
The very sight and scent of which
Drains the life from me,
Until all my light is congealed—
One single drop, one little gem,
A precious little ruby of darkness—
And in the cut of its shimmering visage, 
Six trillion voices sing back to me my own rhythm of fear…

But I wonder,
Is this the only way?

To keep myself late,
Deep in the hour of the void,
Pressing on the cyst under my crystalline eye,
Mutilating myself so that I can make blood for you?
Turning my tears into shards of glass,
Sculpting my bile and my shit into weapons of mass destruction,
Cutting my insides open so I can display wriggling life,
So I can see all the demons moving inside me,
As they go about their business,
Exacting all the rhythms of Hell,
Arming all the shadows of the earth
For the great and endless holy war
In the age after time?

To me the world is an apricot—
Even in hell there is beauty,
Even in blood and suffering there is life,
Raw and defiant and indominable until it isn't,
A symphony of grace-in-gracelessness—
But not to you,
All you see is death, in there—no joy, no light, no stars and spotted suns,
All there is is death, to you.

Oh, to you,
All my magick is forsaken art,
All my intuition a dark and empty rite, and
I am doomed to a half-life, a cursed life
Toiling under a strange and foreign sun,
Somewhere under some thumb of a great and bloodthirsty god,
And all of it requires sacrifice—
It is the kind of life a bonfire lives,
A big, raging, explosive, shimmering, beautiful life,
Decadent, explosive, opulent, never sated,
Existant so long as there is a process making death from life—
But the moment that all the wood runs out, it falls back into oblivion, 
For it cannot sustain itself without death, without combustion,
It lives only within death.

Aren't you and I the same?
Marked by death in every stitch of our souls?
Cut from its very fabric?
Aren't we,
The great and fabled Eaters of Stars,
Doomed to the same fate as smoldering embers in an empty grate?

Or could there ever be a way,
For us to wash the taint from our souls,
And never know (except that which lives inside of us)
The sight nor scent of blood again?

But oh, to you, to you,
All such longing is a deadly art.
To you, it is death for me to stand so caught in one place—
But I think I am the process that makes life from death,
Even if I don’t yet know what that means.

More from Aurora Gamourtian:

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