By Rahaf Al-Mawed | Contributing Writer

The pond dried itself for you

Your thirst grew greedy

The space became of vacancy

And what once reflected blue under the moonlight

Now bears green mold

You still sought my sweet flesh afterwards

I ponder if your fangs had turned it bitter over time

Your insides reflect on your body

Your nerves commanded mine

A ventriloquist’s dream

Outside the balcony

And towards the ward

The statues prayed

For no one blew life unto them

For their time will never come

But I know you

You would entrench your claws

Till the stone becomes flesh and bone

Till the stone runs soft

Till it becomes consumable

You chose my ghostly gown wisely

“My Godiva”

I am not.

I am the false vulture you turned me to be

And whenever your throat would dry

Absorbeo

My gown loses most of its fabric

Till I am left with what my creator had naturally given me

Abstergo

You built me a castle

An illusion that my world is titanic

But it keeps tightening and tightening

You were intentional

For you keep swallowing

And your gulps devour continents whole

You placed portraits

Women and their beloveds

With delight overtaking them

But their gowns were brittle

And white.

A master of ploy, you were

You told your brother

If he were to die

You would bury him in the finest dirt

Apparently, you have it in you

To learn the art of mortuary

How can death be the bereaved?

If the sun sets sooner

It would because sight is witness

And witness is complicity

You held all these lavish weddings

‘Masquerades’, you would correct me

When it was I who taught you the languages of the world.

Weddings.

Masquerades never ended with secret betrothals

In my city

That you stole from me

Angelus?

Your chords tore apart

And you started playing a different tune

That stained your wings

Yet I believe the holiest of angels

Would continue their sacred rituals

Even if their flight to God obfuscates

“My Apostolus”

I am not.

You took my voice

And then my reticence followed

Would it purport anything had your frontier of me not been a legacy of mine?

You masked yourself as the object of all desires

In those masquerades

Yet I knew deep inside

You were the subject

And the rest shalt follow

Their outlines were distinct

My sight never conceived a mirror

Blessed be the spirit that created me from clay

And not from stone

Melting only causes changes in form

In crumbling disintegration occurs

And I cease.

Yet your grip was a master of handling both

My love used to consist of stained glass

Which you surrounded me with

A sign of devotion

No

The beauty they once held had been captivated

They were as repugnant as what you had done to your subjects

Stained glass conceals like curtains drawn

So often

So wastefully

“My Anima”

I am not.

Had I been

You would have died with me

If I and your soul were one

Do you bear loathe towards yourself that much?

Cruentus

My maids were my only confidants

The spilled blood had to be washed away

So often

So wastefully

And you raised lethal flowers

Spread them over my plates

You called it dinner

And I took them in like the Gods drink their nectar

Rightfully

Because death is generous with its sentence

Death’s walls are greater than your skies.

You built a relationship with my trees

Overflowed them with water

They weren’t made of greed

You were.

My pomegranates and grapes bore rotten souls

Crimson and mulberry

Painted a hue of violet that darkened what was once my only chance of paradise

Dominatus

You granted yourself uncontrollably

As if I was not already of occupation to your sky

As if you permitted my residence to anything else

But my sky was just one of your many.

 “My Dea”

I am.

And I have come to take what is rightfully mine.