“Write your heart,” you said, “and not in the poetic sense – no, I want the gristle smeared on the pages, I want your hands to bleed, see – I just bit your pinky, and I will kiss your fingers gory until you can summon angel and demon and god. You’re a wordsmith – a skald – a weaver of stories, and I will break you to make you sing.”
So you pushed, and you dissected, and you beat the words out of me until I vomited prose. It came in tangles of guts, my entrails coming up from twelve to twenty-four, chasing after divination in the smoke of my offered meat. You built up the pyre and my screamed poems were offerings as your flames licked me bone and the gods were pleased
The spirits came, the spirits came, the spirits danced and I rode Thunderbird’s back and I fought by Michael’s side and all along you were my shadow, my rood, my doom.
My magic is screaming the runes, my galdr is a harp that details the rise and fall and comeback of pantheons that crumble to dust then rise from ashes.
The dead speak to me. The gods whisper sweet rhymes in my ear. I am Isis in Osiris’ tomb, Eve in the Garden of Evil, Aslaug whose song is the World Tree.
I have lived so many lives, and I am ageless but so close to the end.
The words wanted blood. The words wanted sacrifice. Sleepless nights, endless research of kennings and Kabbalah, I hung myself from the Sephiroth and ended up a Qliphoth whore.
I cheat. I channel spirits and get high then write down their stories. I used you and your brother and the whole host of the cosmos to get fancy words and things that stuck. There’s fly tape in my book binding and you’re a midge buzzing in my ear hung from the ceiling of my book.
You thought I would be your disciple, that Satan could win the Woman Clothed in the Sun, you made me out to be the Whore of Babylon to your Beast and it took me two dozen years, but I found the eraser, and now you’re drowning in my ink spill.
I used to think my words weren’t mine. I had a complex that I was just a vessel, just a receptacle and trance whore, and maybe I kind of am, but I also bled, I bled, I bled out countless hours and your words are no longer chains. Nachash means fettered, and I bind you, I cast you out, I curse you.
You are no longer the storyteller.
Your book ends, my poem begins.