Through the green mist comes the call.
I want you – but I could want you more. I could carry a desire hotter than any woman owes any man, vows or not. I could ache when I’m not around you, hurt to be next to you, die for your hands on my skin and your tongue on my lips.
All this, if you had one thing, something you could take so easily had you the courage. Are you a man? Blood can be washed from your hands but the stain of cowardice will stay with you long past your bones become dust kissing the earth.
Through the green mist comes the girl.
The power. The power. The power. The most savage and the most satisfying of lovers. It is not a man and yet it is more of a man than you will ever be. You’ve done it, you scream. Yes. Now do it again. There’s more to be gained, higher heights we can climb to. You’ve done it once, you can do it again.
The blood, so brutal, so beautiful – this is the proof of your love for me. I want you – but I could want you so much more.
Through the green mist comes the death.
Is this madness? No, for this cruelty is more than that. The air is red and the sky is anger and the grass is blackness. My hands are a stranger’s, my reflection sneers and turns its back. I used to want you – now I can barely stand to look at you.
Through the green mist comes the end.
[This piece first appeared on Mood of Monk.]