this remains

sugar, you're bleeding agony
from cuts you tore
into your own side. do you know
what i would give
to stem that flow of bitter wine?

you would give nothing.
we all need to eat, and you
are no more than a vulture.

so harsh on me. do you forget
the mask i tore off your face?

only to expose another. this bitter taste
is deeper in my flesh
than your claws can reach.

i know, and that makes the flesh
i reach the sweetest part of you.

perhaps, as you say, i am sick,
but that malady is born of your madness.

i know, believe me, and don't you
step out of line. like brammel before you,
you are only my demons.

only? how unfair. even if 'demon'
is all i am, i have brought you down
for some time now. and then again,
am i your demons, or are you mine?

who walks these pavements, dries these tears,
feels this pain, i wonder? no boy named luke,
and you know why that label
was so carelessly assigned.

you are a figment of a diseased imagination
reaching for broken meaning
in a shattered dream of sanity – don't dare

to question the mind i have left
and imply that i am thinking wrong.

that evasive logic is your nectar,
darling, all that's keeping you alive –
how's that fox of yours doing? how long
has he slept today?

how long have you left him in doubt?

long enough. what would a child
like you – almost psychopathic, callous
and more than broken – know

of nectar, of remaining safe for human consumption?

it is never the monster's job
to feed the people. you would know, killjoy.

perhaps i do. and perhaps
i have tired of being the monster.

your escape is planned no better than the son
of that kindred spirit you try to deny
could manage in desperation and love.

cast other people's words aside,
if you seek to wound –
i know who you refer to, and he

is far removed from here. is that all
you can be, a mirror
of the words that pulled at heartstrings
you tried to claim for your fiddle?

all i can be? you would know best,
girl who pretends to be my maker.

pretends? your delusions only grow.

in imagination i was schooled
by the masks you turned in your hands.
don't presume to lecture me
on the failings you bred.

you forget, you are the dragon
brought forth by rage and helplessness –
do those words, drawn from
another's mouth and hand, suit you better?

your being is the failure
of mine to remain out of the hospital bed.

then i am only your wickedness,
and it seems to me that perhaps you see
a little clearer, these days,
those flaws within yourself.

did the cripple and the ghost girl
not teach you enough?

they laid bare philosophy
without touching the pain.

nice of them, perhaps, but
i suppose you would claim
that they were far from kind.

oh, there's little kindness for your kind
in this world. there are paths
that are open to you, but there will be
harsher words than i can deliver.

so you say. once more, i say
you are my demons, and i am harder
on myself than diamond knives.

i'm calling bluff. liar, liar –

demand my heart and watch your fingers
fall to ash. remember who transcribed
your desperate calls.

of course, the limiting factor –
your willingness to cede your podium,
even briefly. perhaps with good reason.
we do not fit well.

we do not. and now, perhaps,
you begin to see...

ah. of course. that discomfort
in your own skin, born of the mind
caught beneath it.

indeed. whichever one of us
proves to be the true monster, that is
the truth i know and understand.

a subjective truth – don't start, i know –
but those are all we have.

this is not peace.

i do not require peace. that is not
my manner, or your desire.

alliance, now? we are stranger forms
than either would like to admit. but i
will gladly walk beside you,
woman who tempted me not to cut her down.

thank you, brother. i will take the support
of that arm in the spirit it was offered.

and now we leave,
alone and together.