the cost of love

Beads of sweat transpire across my flesh, my temples throb and strain as I lie with the weight of my cognitive curse.

The motive behind this planet might be rather sinister, yet I abide by its laws; ticking off equations, praying there is some good left // I must need something to have faith in. I am on my knees each iridescent night, ignorant of the laughingstock I have made of myself. They accumulate behind as I intertwine my palms till my vessels restrict; ignorant of their pitiful hysterics // I must need something to believe in.

I find glimpses of it when characters gather a twinkle in their eye in the presence of their missing rib, the moonlight piercing through a spring breeze — whistling through the weeping willows, the first bite of my father’s meal and the way my ichor proved its function when I felt his gaze on me.

All subsides, all is gone in due time yet why do I reminisce?

I am a mosaic of ghosts; dandelions remind me of a friend I spent my childhood with, newly discovered songs alert me to a boy whose heart I once recklessly held, and Korean meals for the pale girl who had wailed with me in kindergarten.

If one were to flip me inside out like a silicone toy, they would find specks of stars covered in mould — a price you pay for entrusting me with memories. The spores only grow, its pungency staining each follicle of my being; reeking of inharmonious conversations I routinely try to rinse.

The spores dig deep into my flesh when I sleep, entangled in my dreams with its selfish thorns — flaying its way into my consciousness to affirm I cannot escape myself.