by Jane Carnall
I hear voices speaking in the next room. I am the only one here.
Demon of the soul, demon of the heart. Walk with the light, die with the sunset. Live with the stars. Eat the honey of my life. Drink deep of my wine. Live for me. Die for me. Killing is easy: murder is vile. Sleep is sweet. Who are you, demon, devil-child, sweet witch, angry soul? All of me. You are all of me, and I am all in you. I sing and you appear. I dance and you dream. I dream and you wake. I wake and you sleep. Your jewels are my eyes. You drink from my mind. You sing in my soul. You breathe in my heartbeats. As my heart beats, so does yours. Magic is yours: plain bread is mine. I make bread with your bones ground to dust and the honey of your lips and the yeast of your mind, oiled with your speech, baked in your heat. Do I love you or hate you? Do I will you or want you? Am I you or are you me?
Where are you? I look for you and you are not there. I seek for you in my heart and find only cold. I eat your heart and taste dust. I hear you singing but I can’t see you. Where are you, my creator, my owner, my dancer, my dreamer, my food and my wine? Live for me and I will kill for you. Look at me as if I were vile, call me a murderer, let me do as you command: only be here for me, in my dreams, loving me or hating me. Be here. Be honey. Grind my bones to make your bread. Spread my words like butter and honey. You will me and I want you. I am yours, with love or hate. Always and forever, I am always in you and you are always of me. I wake in your dreams.
Neither of you are real. You are only the voices in my head. I listen to you and write down what you say, but demon or child, lover or loner, you are not real. Your loves and your hates are shadows to me. You sing only the music that I hear: the rest is silence. You cannot eat or drink: shadows have no mouth or lips, no gullet to swallow nor tongue to taste. You cannot dance: your feet move only as I command, and if I command you to stand still, you may not move. I own you.
I acknowledge no owner. I am the owner: dancer and dreamer and demon. Gift to be given, jewel to be worn, wine to be drunk, bread to be eaten: mine.
I acknowledge no maker: I am the maker: bread and song and music. What you seek, I make: what you think, I take. Mine.
I hear no voice: I am the speaker. Silence is the first and the last.
501 words, 18 minutes
2 March 2002
Feedback: e-mail me (or comment me if you have a livejournal).