(Content Warnings: Self-harm, just generally kinda upsetting)
We couldn't make him stop.
He would reach high and pull the ropes,
the storming bells replacing the air,
and then they'd arrive,
spilling from their carriages,
men too noble for the ground,
laughing,
and smoking,
and darting their eyes.
Only once he made them pause.
They turned,
rolling their chortles down to a hum,
glowered and glared
and stared right through him.
We watched them,
watching him.
And his heart beat so loud you could hear it stop.
They didn't say a word
but he knew what had to happen.
He drew the knife from the little tin box,
skin built up in its details,
and he held the blade to the root of his tongue.
And he didn't stop.
He drew it down
like a child on a slide.
Carving through flesh like snow.
He didn't stop
as he dug it deeper.
Forking a pestilent path.
He didn't stop
and did it again when they'd left.
Biting down hard like a vice after tragedy.
He didn't stop
but poured wine over the festering trench.
Drinking Christ’s and his alike.
Perhaps they ate his soul
and when they rode away, they took it with them.
Or maybe they chide like demons
Who tease out wickedness that waits for its cue.
Maybe all we need is an excuse.
Whatever was left of him cut deeper and deeper
but never enough to break right through.
Just enough to make the wine sting.
Just enough to boil the blood.
And we couldn't stop
tending to the bells.
Written August 2021
Cover Image by Will Esayenko
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