You Are Not The First to Die for a Shot at Redemption

your hands are cold, why are you hands so cold? you think you’d be warm with all the anger inside you, think you’d be better off with some heat to you. 

there is a falling off a cliff edge, that you are watching on a loop. it takes six viewings to realise it is your own death you are seeing. this is of a strange comfort to you, a knowledge of what the end will be like. or, at least it would be if you were like everybody else. there’s a different end waiting for you. it’s coloured black and blue and glittering.

you try not to think about it when there’s another knife against your throat. it makes you panicky and then you breathe too fast, and when you breathe too fast your skin presses into the knife. go to your ending that is black and blue and glittering. ask it to kiss you better. then trace its wrist, down between its needless veins and think of how all the flattery is never going to morph it into a beginning.

you should have known that gods don’t come easy. didn’t you ever read the blood glyphs on the temple wall?