washed in the blood

I am acquainted with the use of force. I am acquainted with the limits things contain. I know when the bone will break, just how far an arm may bend. I have lingered long past the breakage, the detailed map of tears and bruises. Each ingress leaves me nearer to the point, blood sticking to my skin, its scent at once copper crisp and spoiled sweet in the air. Each whispered notion makes it clearer, how close to that farther star. How near to the redemptions that cling to the night. I hold the line, I bear the pressure, defying the candle and the clock. I hold tight until the hurt is enough, and the heart can work its magic.

It is sanctified, this cruel transition. The lamb hung so it is blessed with the sacrament of asphyxia, drizzling that baptismal blood from burning wounds. A thorny crown to trickle, pierce, and sting. The images enfolded in countless breathless prayers, the catechism that can only savor the lash and the spear. We choose a side and lean into the will of the world. We devour ache after ache, and dry all those tears we cause.

Cold steel presses warm skin until the flesh relents, splitting in that crucial moment before pain or pleasure win. Gooseflesh spreads that searing thrill, mortality making its claims plain upon this blessed meat. We dowse ourselves with wounds and pale light, we bind and we break. Tooth and nail, we do the work we believe the world requires. Fixed upon the pain, bent upon raw will and bleeding, we are bathed. I hold the line, calling down the border. I hold the line until the word is at last alive. The magic happens or it doesn't, and the day begins again.