r i p t i d e s [ elverum ]

Ichor of the gods -- it taunts my consciousness, the drink in the bottle the capitol pressed against my forehead for three days, three nights, seventy-two hours. That bitter touch against my tongue, for a second I feel poisoned, that first swig tying a noose around my finger in the form of a ring, commitment, it tastes disgusting. Not like the one in the capitol room, the drink I threw up into the snow and the closet and my thoughts after Veloc- Villa- Vec, her. We drink for her to her. The deep voiced man isn't like the rest of them; backslash, the sea lions, the blondes. He isn't that twist in my stomach I've known for three days, three nights, seventy-two hours, he's just a man and I'm just a man who brought alcohol.

Ticking of a clock's bloodied fists -- the night was mutually assured destruction, his words freezing on the ground before I could pick up a response. There was no point, for as much as I knew I wouldn't remember his face, nor would I remember anything more than the bubbles that rose to the top of the bottle. My father knew that, ("shutupshutup") Saffle always hated him, but I never remember if I did or not; all I remembered of those years was the soft face of my mother. That distant smoke my father billowed, a weak trait in genetic mutation, he was no better than the mutt that chewed into my leg. His homemade remedy to pain was never a bandage, only a swig of rum and something that made you feel worse enough to make the other pain a laughing stock.

Memories were as close as I got.

Divine pilots for veins -- tickticktick, it paced, my heart, its reanimation on a fourth swig. I never liked the cold, not like my sister loved her forest or her friend or her hatred after, she never loved much, not the air in the mornings or the way Duncan slurred his words sometimes to make me laugh; she never loved our mother, but I never asked why, I never asked anything (idiot, fucking idiot) I just took everything by the barrel, every single shot. (Idiot, idiotidiotidiot) why did I never ask about those things on the tip of my tongue, why we never fixed the hole in our wall during the winter if we both hated the cold, or why she hated both of our parents, or why I can only see them, in every goddamn second as my veins begin to pulse and despite the cold I can feel the heat on the back of my neck still -- why do I see them still, I can't imagine the face of Vel, Vico, Vil- her, or Duncan's eyebrows, but I always saw them in every single nightmare I lived through, every time I bled or drowned, I can still see my mother's blue eyes and my father's bushy beard and his thick hands and eyebrows. Tickticktick,

tick,

I still see Saffle, and my great grandma Myrida before she died, and I never knew why, I never knew any of these things because I was too busy sitting in the snow, too busy staring at the deep voiced man's shoe and wondering where his other leg now, wondering if the afterlife comes with all those missing limbs and fingers and friends we have all lost. Wondering if in the afterlife, will I find myself.

Isolated house of gold, bricks of carbon -- "I needed this," my reply rests somewhere in my adam's apple, trying to suffocate myself on the reflux of alcohol and a "I didn't." The bottle is empty, like the base of my arteries and I can't dare myself to look at it like it is her, (why can't I say the name, idiotidiotidiot) my back is dug into the snow, hands covering my blue eyes from the world threatening to rip them by the pupils. Once again I am alone, but I can accept this alone, I needed this, I've realized being alone is better than the thing I dreamed of once.  

Broken joints, screen for a heart -- there is no afterlife, I've decided in that snow. I reclaim that empty bottle, the pike with the poncho wrapped around its head so I don't have to look at the blood ("look at it," she tells me, "if you're gonna kill somebody you can't be afraid of blood") I don't like these puzzles any more. These constant shifts in directions and the way the walls seem to change around my very being and as I enter the forest's territory again I no longer want to know the answer, I no longer want to let the gamemakers win.

I just want to breathe.

R u n a w a y s of lung tissue -- air deflates from my lungs, ignites against the anthem's striking of the night, a clear photo against the sky and I promised myself, I promised every blond hair on my head that I would never watch a single one of them. The faces only tie themselves to my ankles, threatening to pull my under the currents of snow; I can only count the numbers of cannons and pray it isn't the deep voiced man. A canary rings against my ear, this wasn't her anthem, I wouldn't ever get that last chance look at her, to try with all I can until my lifeline is wavering to memorize that face for just two more seconds of my life. I c a n ' t.

Cerebral thunderstorms -- for a second, there's a black screen, and then crystal clear hatred, like the ice hanging from the trees around me like nooses and I burn, ignite as I see her for that split second; I've seen her goddamn face, that fucking blond hair like a lion's mane, she's the one, I know (I know, I know I fucking know that's her) every single cell of my body is screaming when I see her face, and I'm not even scared of myself in retrospect that I only felt emotional in this sense because I wasn't the one to see her teeth ripped out of her skull, to see the blood drain from her face and match with the snow I'd bury her beneath. She killed her, everything I've lost in these past three days, three nights, seventy-two hours, she's the fucking enzyme of my pain. I scream, like backlash and the deep voiced man and I fucking rage, my wrists burning as I clench fingernails into my palms like those memories in my skull, I can't forget this, ("don't forget this pain,") every single thought I've ever tried to suppress under the snow where her body now lays, where her face no longer reflects from as it shifts to that of another girl, I know her, I know her.

I knew her this entire time.

A seize, my heart's ticking burns friction into my torso and I strangle the poncho off the head of my pike, there's a flash in my mind of her blood crisping over and I feel nothing for her but fires, a single ember and I rip the fabric off, flesh sliding over the edge of it's revealed metal and I feel the slice. A slit, straight down my life line. It's a stinging motion, like therapy; a swig of rum and pain stronger than the one originally dealt. Fucking idiot, 

this is why I no longer watch anthems.

My head meets the snow where blood fell, in the same area where a girl died in front of my own eyes, the first time I saw backlash and the deep voiced man. I think I like him, the deep voiced man. It's no longer hidden, the blood on the head of my pike, because instead the poncho is wrapped around my own hand like sleep wraps its fingers around my consciousness and the building headache. I can feel the slip like the slice of skin, and I don't want to think anymore, I don't want to bleed anymore for this day at least. I just want to breathe.