He never minds the blood that stains the bed he sleeps in with me. If it should stain.He washes the sheets by hand and hangs them only under Super moon nights. Not ritual, but purification. He thinks I am something other than what I’ve told him, and won’t trust me to be normal. I taught him what I’d learned of forgiveness and then I had to talk him off the roof. He thinks I come from the Sun because I know its language, but that’s not how it works. He calls me Queen and Goddess, and tries to prevent me from having to leave the house. but I will always return.
I understand why he often cuts my name into his arm. I understand why he wants my blood and his to mingle. And it has.
I understand why he has not eaten since I arrived
I understand why he retreats for one hour each day to rave in tongues
I understand the Raven’s lungs he keeps in a jar underneath his side of the bed (a type of protection)
I understand why there is no more music
I understand why he cannot look directly at me
I understand…I understand…I understand his love
This misery this love this suicide
I understand why he chooses to go to this Hell, why he must, why there is no other option
I know it’s not lust, its compulsion, consumption. I know the look of consumption.
And I know how long it takes to heal.
I will stay until then.