Hey There Wildflower

Who Hurt the One Who Hurt Me

by heytherewildflower

hypatia

Who Hurt the One Who Hurt Me

Narcissus saw himself in a pool, and supposedly fell in love with what he saw, or was he hypnotized, glaring into a graveyard of underwater  bones.

Huge wooly creatures peered into the pools too, thirsting, not trapped by the reflection of themselves or the truth of what sat beneath (like us.) Bodies of ancestors and ancestral enemies. The darkened veil, eyelids of tar — drinking the sour liquid of dying flesh. Where skulls — masks of faces, stare vacantly despite the full history of the world in their DNA.

Mammoths in marching order huddle over the pools — mourning their stinking brothers. Trunks undulating in the black water, a nest of snakes, worms, limbs, appendages slipped from the bone.

Prey and predator together. Mud magic awakens in the socket.

Forget me not, cried narcissus, into the pool of death, his death, the death of himself, his body, his grief…

He stared into the pool and found tar blackened blood and swirls of gas, the eye sockets of his father staring ahead.  Can you see the flesh of your face transposed onto the corpse?  Little fires burn in the swamp –- a skull with your father’s face left to churn.

He’s lead me to a swamp of bodies where there are no safe paths. The only path is out or in – eat and be eaten.

I wonder, what it felt like to leave me, and which moment did he lose me? Driven by righteousness or poor instinct — a survivor’s adrenaline flashing in the belly, rising in his throat, to the brain.

Narcissus caught site of something in the water, saber tooth visage superimposed upon the skull that was his father, the predator who seeded in him the instinct to kill.

Your broken front tooth snaps in the act of devouring — eating the flesh of your father like he’s another teat to suck on. Communion stolen, not taken.

Family is familiar. Narcissus looks into the pool and murmurs “who’s there” to the bright and beautiful corpses.

I’m there. Your father’s there. You’re not here, but one day, you too will sink into the mire, swallowed by earth’s core. And we will not be as you left us. We are fuel for the fire and as fire will consume you.

Touch the corpse with your snout. Smell me. You cannot reach me, you cannot touch me, I am only shapes to see.

A quiet place for a corpse eater to become consumed by a sea of corpses, angels.

Petroleum bubbles rise: the secret history of angels, city of light and city of movements  — dead gray shadow against the drying mud, bleak and oily blue.

We love you from an upside down world. The grave you give us.

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