bloodletting i
a cursed little gem
i stay up late so i can produce a dark relic, a concentrate of all the blood in my body, which i fold into a compact little drop and squeeze out the openings of my eyes. i hold the little ball of blood in my hand, and i ask it: drain the life from me. make my light a little dimmer. make my tongue a little less sharp. and as it feeds, i feel it all pouring out of me. i feel the worry and the fear and the unknowing. i am one with the shadow again, not for the first time, that specter of great and endless dark… and in my hands, in exchange for my life and blood i get a cursed little gem— a dark entity— who weaves blood magick upon me, but whose light burns with the great beacon of fire, for all and ever to see. so i gave death in exchange for life. i hope. for i cannot reconcile ash and fire, nor ice and water, nor ice and fire, nor life and death, nor good and evil, if I do not start here, in the heart of the abyss. for the taint is in my soul. it is in all our souls. and i cannot go on without naming that fact, without naming that all of life is from there.
so let all that blood, please, make something new. let all my drained light become ritual, summoning forth some numinous reconciliation, seeding some great and powerful cleansing! for why else do we call out to the heavens, except to justify the shedding of blood— it is this for that, it is death for life, and what could I kill so much that to love it would make the sun set, would wash away the taint... and to this aim I must merely move through that shadow, temporarily, yes, temporarily, only to reconcile it. only to synthesize it. only to touch it, hold it, drink it, love it, be it, fuck it— but ultimately let it slip through my fingers... or so I tell myself, or so I tell myself. as my crimson palms grow heavy and wet.
