twin-animus-fuck

by Allister Nelson

we were both born in december. maybe that’s just circumstance. there is something so atrocious about the last day of the year, when the fields are fallow, and your black hair litters the floor of our bed.

the crowds thin, glitter sparkles on the floor, and the infernal sun buries into the heart of the earth. what passed between us once as jokes now hold much more meaning. i look at the lines of battle on you, think about when i was young, and i cry, Brother/Father/Lover. you are monolith of all my failings. the wet line of blood that crosscuts my ribs. what is the meaning of suffering, this caul of rebirth that happens each 31st?

the tithe is turning rot in the apple orchard. bones roll in the graves of pandemonium, where legions of angels fell. back to december. back.

the wheel turns, and i’m young. vulnerable. clinging to your leg. your tan skin glows like adamant gold, and your hair shines like starfire and plasma. your smile is a whetstone. i’m getting old. i’m running out of time. soon, i will bury you, my ghost of a boy, my ruse of a brother, the other half of my heart.

when i slice my palm open in devilish pact, out spools the gore of you. i do not know where you end and i begin. we can lay here, together in bed, and be worlds apart. the ghost of longing and summers that never were, never could be, festers. what binds us are black pages and pale moons.

september riled. november whispered. it is always october in your brother’s harvest fields. but we are the bones of winter. we are never to see spring

and when i weep in the lowest circle, clutched to your icy breast,

Lover/Father/Brother, you gnaw at the core of me.

and to be devoured by my demon is sweet. into the muck, into the mire, into

hell

i’ll

dissolve.

all for a glimpse of you.

Click here to read Allister’s bio.