And so, he made the gods themselves bend at the knee; etro

[Kingslay]

KINGSLAY

‘Kingslay,’ she breathes, and his name sounds like thorns against her skin, his name sounds like hands around her throat, his name sounds like metal through bone. She breathes against him, and he thinks of the ocean, he thinks of the tide, he thinks of drowning.

The answers she is searching for are answers he will never know.

They are answers he is not capable of. They are answers that do not exist inside of him, and so when she says: ‘Tell me that you missed me,” pleading, begging, he will not break. He cannot break. He cannot, because he doesn’t miss anything that isn’t pooling blood, or breaking bone. He cannot, because he doesn’t miss the living. He cannot, because he is made up of awful pieces. He cannot. He cannot.

And the sky is bleeding colours he will not ever see.

He does not see the acid clouds. He does not see the indigo. He sees her flesh rolling like the waves of a tide, and he feels like a thousand tiny grains of sand, and he feels like gravity because of the way she ebbs and flows around him. He sees the vein behind her ear that throbs with every beat of her simple heart, but he does not see the sky bleeding like a watercolour. He cannot.

She might have loved him.
He might have killed her.

‘Please,’ she says, and he does not wonder if he would if he had only the words. He thinks instead about blood in water. It fogs his eyes until the only colour he sees is red. Of course she doesn’t mind. Of course – because she’s always liked the wrong things, the black things, the dirtied, the molding and corrupted things. Of course she leans against him even when she ran, and he ran. Of course.

Of course she stays.
Of course he says nothing.

And so, he made the Gods themselves bend at the knee.

KINGSLAY BY NEVAEH | HTML BY MAAT | IMAGE © ILYA KISARADOV