Tyrants
Sometimes, late at night, I hear the whisper of a demon or bird from outside the house. Its voice, sweet like dates ripening in the Mediterranean sun, but also salty like its ocean, tells me things that I don’t want to hear; I cannot excuse myself from the tyranny of my ear which laughs at the limitations of my cold and detached eyes, a constant drumbeat in my head, echoed by the many thoughts and fears the sound brings up:
Kill
Fuck
Die
Again, again.
But I don’t want to kill. I am not a murderer.
I am doubting myself when I think back on these feverish dreams from that night years ago, full of unpleasant fragments of images:
I could be one of them.
The memory pains me every second it returns, and that is why I hate the drumbeat and the sweetness of all dates.
I see myself in the blue hour, sweating in the heat, and my hand goes up and down, up and down, turning the blue to red and the smell of my body to the scent of something else that should not be here.
But when I bend my head and want to look down at what I have done, I don’t see; my eyes refuse to see, and my arrogant ears barely hear what I was told, so I have to believe that I am not a murderer.
Is this craving lust between my legs because of the one word
Kill
Or because of the whisper of the bird before me, breathing out as loudly as it could but remaining quietly
I forgive you
Maybe I should forgive myself, too. Let go of the drumbeat, let the hands do what hands must do, and the memories fade like the moon in the morning sun. Give up, and give myself up to the salty ocean and sweet dates. Live or not live with a stinking body, and remove all thoughts, and make the tyrants' drumbeat stop.
With thanks to Edward.Marlo.Ruiz for the inspiration and feedback.
Original photo by Dylann Hendricks, modified by Ashmore under the Unsplash license.
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