Here I was, a rock separated from it’s mother earth.
And I wonder where my lust leads me. The nature that calls me, and the civilization that rejects me.
The shield of my body which so carefully absorbs blows, and which decisively neuters any threat onto itself- this is the essence I contain.
And my trauma and sins are as old as me. I carry them on my back and in baskets, in the tender flesh of my brain and in the buckling of my legs.
And I wonder, how old am I. And where does my age lead me, and if history is written by the victors, then what memories have plagued in fire and salted their grounds, never to be touched on again.

I think of you and your sins, and how vulnerable you were to show them, but like all of us, you could not be above them. And I could not be above mine. I do not carry the foresight to tell all that lies ahead, but I can tell it in part. And the madness was a nigh certainty. Like all of us, pain was an assurance from the moment we gasped cold air. The brisk taste of ice on the tongue.

You were and are a child, as we all are. Throw a fit and feign ignorance, as I do. Know better and act worse, as I have. The sparse words of pity I give you will only be mirrored by the dead gods and their false empire from which they cultivate the crops of a surface less hell. The hell that we can never see but is familiar none the less.

You are a head, which holds your mind, a neck, which connects you to the torso. Your shoulder hangs off, in it’s full range of motion, your arm bends to clutch, and in your hand, you bear a stone, and the love you carry in your heart tells you to throw it. Will you listen to the sultry, sickly, sweet melody your heartstrings play and cast it?

The rock bears and erodes, as we all do. But we can edit- we can sharpen this rock into a head, of a spear or an axe. Let the product of the earth form into something below it and strike. Be above the cruel suggestions of nature and create the perfect cruel law in your mind to which all will follow. You and everyone can strike us all down.

Here I am, a rock separated from my mother earth, shaven to the sharpest edge, in which I can pierce the precise point. The hand goes forth and I am cast, and I set to kill, to exterminate, from the love that came before me, into your domain.

And at once the veins that hold your empire together are severed and toppled you are, Your body crumbles on itself and your head falls backward into the sand, already drying and shriveling. And finally, our love has won.

How comforting that we were not the first victims, nor that we would be the last. That we found our rightful place in her story. Scribbled away in a page, a page inked in a book, a book shelved in a mahogany casket, in the tallest tower of babel, property of the last living librarian delivering their sisyphean, eternal task.

Here I will be- a rock returned to it’s mother earth, free from control, and in tune with what has shaped me. And there, I will rest, and the dead god will stay dead, and I will stay dead, and the wind will howl its song through our hearts and I will no longer be standing to break its chords. My age will be eternal, and I will be eroded and I will die as many deaths as there are grains of sand.

A child of the mother.

Here is where I belong.