Better you than me. |
A Noble Concession Your anguish is in my blood and it gives me breath, erasing my various maladies and self-inflicted afflictions. The light shines, glows you and shows you and I am somehow more relevant. Weep a little in the corner, and I will smile as I inhale the clean, blackberry winter air. The pity which wraps me up has holes in its fabric, and yet, I am curiously warmed by it just the same. Far too lovely a comfort to let me consider the reasons why. The crown on my head is an imperfect fit, yet the weight of it assures me that it is there, nonetheless. The diamonds are March pond cold, and the rubies brim with blood, and this is beautiful. While I’d like to lend a hand, both are holding the empress wreath in place, maintaining the order I favour. Offering one to you, would make it all come down pooling at my feet, drama dissolved and flooding me, eradicating the untenable walls that I‘d once had about me. I would melt, in spite of this bitter skin, into the floor, seeping through the cracks staining the wood, leaving evidence of my frailty written in the grooves and grains. My charms would be scattered like rolling, cat-eyed marbles, which possess no obvious value. I have no wish to see you wear the sadness but it is better, for me, that you own the misery. It is not disdain, nor some sort of slow-moving wrath which compels me to deviate the path of this merciless ill toward you. It is only survival. |