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vii.

my lips taste like yours after they committed murder

the blood that runs in your veins was once mine, 

you spilled it and it became part of your body

the same way my atoms were pulled to your atoms

so they could form new molecules no scientist

has ever heard about


you mutter my name and it becomes a new kind of spell

only you can perform.

my Patronus takes your form. so does my Boggart. 

you're both my spirit guardian and my biggest fear, 

both the kiss I crave for and the Dementor who gives it.


my bones crumble into the dust you sweep away from your soul,

that you mop into the darkened corners of your hallowed mind

everyone sees the halo adorning your devil horns,

but only I see it for what it is, a crown of thorns.


you wake my heart up from its hibernation, 

you bring spring and summer upon it, 

everything is blooming and then fall comes and everything is dying

and when it finally gets to winter, 

everything is either freezing or crying.


you put my conscience to sleep, 

it rests peaceful and still for one hundred years

and when it wakes up

it wakes up to no kiss, it wakes up to a kill

for you murder every thought and every ideal

that has ever dared to grace the insides of my head


you first make my senses dormant and numb

with long slender fingers meant to play the piano, 

not me, not my body, and certainly not my heart, 

but you played me and you made music out of me

and I can't hear it, for it's in a frequency of the gods, 

only I call them devils,

it's the death march to the Olympus and the elegy

to the yet to be killed,

too divine for my earthly ears to catch, 

too corrupted for my mind to comprehend.


my brain waves roll over your sand and crash onto your cliffs,

drawn to you not by the moon but by your voice, 

the owner of my tides, the siren of my drowning,

the slayer of all choice.


you make my senses dormant and numb

only to overexploit them

you don't have enough love to feed my cravings

so I become malnourished and starve

for the crumbs of what you can give me, 

even if they're anything but nourishing, even if they're poison.


I keep knocking on your door even though your spirit is

closed for holidays, closed for good, closed for it was never open.

it needs work, you say. it needs renovation, it needs rebirth, 

but how can something die if it has never been alive in the first place?


and I go to the library in search of knowledge, 

I crack the spines of books

because mine is already broken, 

I blow the dust away,

it stings in my evermore watery eyes, 

but nothing makes me learn as much as experience, 

as much as trial and error, especially error,

like loving someone who doesn't know what that is, 

who doesn't own a heart that's capable of beating,

who can't love or be loved but is a master at feigning it.


tom, since you are my greatest teacher, 

since you have all the libraries in the world inside you, 

shelves and shelves of begrimed ancient tomes

carelessly shoved into the rusted drawers of

an overly organized mind, 

since you hold all the books, both the ones yet to be written

and those who already were, 

both the expectant new and the viciously burned, 

since the fire that burned down the library of Alexandria started in you, 

I want you to explain me this.


why? why did you make such a weapon out of my body? 

every part of my mind is in conflict with itself, 

every thought waging war against the next.

there isn't a single space in me that is at peace, 

that knows what amity is.

everything in me is a weapon, but not my weapon, yours. 

I'm your battlefield. no part of me can be called my own. 

and no part of you can be called mine.

this is what the greats describe as tragedy.


you look at everyone in the world and see me. 

I look at no one and still see you. 

sometimes I feel like I occur solely in your dreams. 

my actions are the extension of your thoughts.

you lay a claim on me as if I'm just another

coveted object at an auction of the wealthy, 

but I'm not an item you can add to the precious collections

you leave to perish in the skeletons you call museums.


your heart is like an empty slot waiting for the coin,

galleon, sickle or knut, it doesn't matter,

(as long as it's not amortentia that it's poured

onto the cracks of your unbeating heart for

infatuation is a bargaining chip you refuse to accept)

you're waiting for the coin but I'm not a coin, tom,

I'm the whole economy.

every vault in Gringotts was built in my name. 

I've made countries go bankrupt so

what's to say you'll survive my cyclical crises?


we've collided and spun each other for so long

we no longer know how to walk in a straight line,

so we need to hold hands or we'll both collapse, 

we're drunk but it's not on love, it's on each other's blood. 

give me that knife so I can make a home out of your veins, 

I'll give you mine so you can etch your life story,

all of your tragedies, in the tarnished marble of my bones, 

I am all the Greek myths after all, 

all the statues come to life inside of me, 

all the Greek temples have altars where I can sacrifice

my humanity for your immortality.


you're neither my end nor my beginning

but you give them both meaning. 

I exist because you say I do

and I'll disappear if you stop dreaming about me.


so dream about me, tom. dream about me so I won't fade. 

dream of me with your eyes wide open. 

don't be afraid the dreams will turn into nightmares 

– I'll adore you in those too.


but you know out of the two of us I'm the better liar.

what I truly meant to say is

I will haunt you in those too.

just like you haunted me in mine even before they came true.

be aware that in your dreams I might actually

love you.

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