SOMETHING LIKE SKIN
They say tell the story of Cocytus or shut your mouth. Bite the ice and never speak on the horrors and never speak on the beauty of it all. Never speak on how the cold comforted you and never speak of his frozen hands on you. How they felt good.
God, teach me to shut my mouth and repent. Teach me to fear hell and bite the ice.
I asked him for favors and he did provide. My mother is not sick anymore and my father loves me again. I’m not scared of the dark.
I stretched by the rivers of hell and I slept so peacefully (that feels wrong, but it was peaceful).
I am scared of the giants and the way they loom over me, even stuck in the ground as they are, bulging eyes and fingers ready to gouge, gouge stomachs or eyes or hearts.
I talked to the sinners who could still talk and they told me their lives. I will never forget but sometimes I wish I could. Truth feels bitter in my mouth. I will masticate and spit it out at his feet.
I gave him a lock of hair and something like skin. I gave him an arched back and palms towards the stalactites. Knees scraped and bones sore. I don’t regret that part. Everything has a price. I am disappointed with what I want to say and my mother is too. She didn’t raise an affectionate daughter but she had one. My sticky-sweet temperament made her sick. My mother taught me to hate. I saved her.
I love him rotten. I love him spoiled. I love him enough to fall and I love him enough to land on my crooked spine. Enough to appease that balance that weighs our souls, to stop the blunt scythe swinging for my head. Nonetheless I am destined for the pit. The apple fell and landed in my hands. I picked nothing off that tree. My head hurts. Am I saying too much?
I gave him passion and hair and something like skin, an arched back and palms up, a prayer and bruised knees. I said there are bargains you shouldn’t make but this one was quick. He said blasphemy is a beautiful expression and that wings rip easily. My head is full of spirits. Do you understand me? I want him against me I am hungry for more. I gave and he gave back, more than repenting did, more than chanting hymns did. More than salvation did. My body sings his praises.
We made bets for fun and I could never win. He says I won already. I ask if what we did counts as a bet. I lace his fingers with mine and he chuckles. He is kind and cold and cracks often. I’ve never met a god like him (I do not think him holy or blessed). Sometimes he will utter a word that reminds me: he is a man. The apple falls into my hands. It rattles like a child’s toy.
I will not plead for forgiveness when my time comes.
I’ll fall,
I’ll fall,
I’ll fall.
He welcomes me.
Omnia, 15, France ✯ IG: @omnia_yahia111 ✯ yahiaomnia111@gmail.com
“Omnia is fifteen and loves to write anything but third person author bios. Seek meaning in every syllable, and feel something, for her sake. Thanks, xx.”