i weep at the feet of the lost calf



୨୧ content warning, thirteen thousand words of hell

୨୧ i closed the medicine cabinet, and instead of my own body, the worst of decomposition tugged the light out of my eyes, like a tourniquet snuffing out the life that kept me rooted, and all the breath inside me dipped and spilled out of my body.
i pee myself when i wake up and get scared, cupping my hand over my underwear. this personal ritual of humiliation, how my body is so fearful to awake, to be stimulated with the crucifixion and the life, and the feeling of this body soft consciousness.
staring in the mirror, my humiliation pooled around my feet, too hot, and too real. i stared into the mirror, opened my mouth, feeling at the sores carved into the soft and delicate flesh. how my teeth had clamped down and chewed away in my sleeping terror, as if to exhume an escape from my musculature. this divine fever is eating all my life and strength away. no light catches in my eyes in the mirror. its as if, no light has ever caught in my eyes, and there is a great cathedral being built in the sagging, hollowed out skin beneath the socket.
i open my mouth, feeling around the sores and burrowing cigarette burns littering the soft vaginal flesh of my mouth. textured like warm plush glass, my fingers feel the yellowing ashen bumps and wounds inside, my teeth furry and ugly. i brush them, and spit out the voice and words i sucked on for so long. it's not long before it fills up with rotting spit again. and my voice boils up the worst of my sickness and coats my teeth and beneath my tongue in thick spit. my fingers push and gently pull around the flesh of my tongue, and the structure of my teeth. my tongue is cool to the touch, like im suffocating, but the walls of my mouth, and the bed of muscle my tongue lays on is hot and balmy.

i take off my soiled clothes, staring at the ugly architecture god used to build me. under my skin the ripples of stitching that swaddle the organs and bundles of nerves, and how my body was pushed together when it fought back. and here i am, in a loose definition of the word, living. i step into the shower.
i wash myself as coordinatedly as i can, which isn't very well at all. i wash myself like a child, flailing and sputtering under the hot water, until hives cover my body from the steam and heat.
i hate how cold my hair gets so fast when it is finished, and i hate how it all falls over my fingers and gets tangled on the wrinkled skin. i pull soft cream through it, the smell of vanilla and powder, bestowing a halo of sweetness onto this crown of rot. i dress myself. stumbling around like a foal, clumsy and unused to doing anything on my own. anything of my own self sacrament.
"please lord, let it be over." i murmur, tucking my breasts into my camisole as i try and make myself demure, make myself purified in how these clothes are clean. i tell myself that, over and over, that they're new, and i am just a lamb, to be dressed is to be mothered, and that i am sheltered in their embrace.
i pull on my brown boots, muddied fur lining and the stitches that are all falling out. pull my long fleece socks up to my thighs, even though i know they'll be flecked with mud and the soft snowflakes of frost dirt once i get outside. the cigarette i didn't finish last night hangs out of my lips, and i don't light it until im halfway down the road.
the town i live in, a small cradle ontop of the hill that sprawls down into a larger village down in the valley. it's cold up on the hill. the roads are all steep, the purple grass and heather all sweep and sway right beneath your navel. the trees are all black and dusted with permafrost, besides summer when they turn way too green, and everything becomes sullen and bloated. the sky mottles and bruises over, a domestic with god, his veins all exploding and crackling open under the skin of the sky.
the walk down the dirt road winds and spins, or at least it feels like im spinning, the sky overcast, deep greys and churning clouds. it's still early morning, and the sun is barely visible behind the mess of clear storm. the sun only kisses and hits a few spots with chartreuse, balmy pinks and bright mattress stain yellows. its loud outside, the sound of birds screaming, rabbits chirping and rustling the grass as they skip and rush. i cover my ears as i walk, rubbing the cigarette between my teeth. eventually, i just give up and put on my earmuffs. even if i like the sensation of the blood rushing to shelter the skin there, making it red and swollen in an attempt to drive out the chill.
my boots get muddied as usual, and the lace cuffs of my knit sweater are soon flecked with the freckles of dirt. i didn't think i kicked up much of it. the sun is beginning to warm the morning, stirring it slightly, if only. it can't reach us too much, can't bother to shelter us.
everything in town, at the plateau of the hill, is quiet, and im tired. every building here, cast in the glow of weathered street lanterns. each building seems to be anointed with an overflowing desolation. each building, soiled, architecturally pubescent and swelling with water and mold, and with too many warm bodies to harbor. the soft paints, weathered and crackling, like an execution, shooting up veins of dark wood between white and pink paint. i walk down the road, watching the headlights of trucks flit around, and flicker through fenceposts and trees. the diner i always eat at is always open. night shift usually hasn't even left yet, and the sharp dark eyes of the waitress who never serves me no matter how long i sit in her section already pass me over through a window. open to let the morning breath in from the heat of the kitchen.

i sit down in her section, and she leaves to smoke, cause i can see her pointing to me to another waitress, the dayshift one that just got in, with long translucent blonde hair, and huge brown eyes. she's wearing thin frames, and she's chewing tobacco, i can smell that too, and see her spitting into a cup, that i watch to make sure isn't my mug.
the blonde brings me over my coffee, and i dump my sugar into it, no cream. she flips her pen through her fingers, and absentmindedly pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose, and raises her eyebrows questioningly at me. i look down at the coffee, then back up at her, wordless.
"kay, usual." her voice is calm, thick, and viscous. she walks off, slamming her notepad into her hip, and i stare down into the brown stain on the rim of my mug.
i imagine her nursing me for a moment, her pulling down her waitress apron, and cooing to me, her lips pressing on my forehead, and her long blonde hair falling over my cheeks as i tuck into her breast. but as i imagine it, her breastmilk tastes like tobacco spit, and i imagine myself spitting it out, all over her chest. i think she uses the hem of her apron to wipe it off, and puts me on her shoulder instead, and she's so warm, and she drags her fingers down the stitching on my navel, and presses on my back to hold me to her.
the fantasy is quickly forgotten as i stare down at the table. she's a soft looking woman, and i like the way she tucks her chewing tobacco behind her back teeth. the way her perfume smells like cream soda and blackberries. she's got the face of a dove, and her lips are always coated with shiny gloss, that sticks and spools on her lips when she speaks.
i take a sip of my coffee, and let the heat hit my stomach, feeling the coffee coat every surface inside me. i hate coffee that smells like tobacco. i like my drink and smoke separate.
the waitress comes back, and i still haven't bothered to read her nametag, because im not going to say a word anyway. my mouth feels like it's raw and shut tight. she puts down a plate of pancakes, with banana slices and chocolate sauce smothered on. she leaves, as i begin to smush the bananas up, and dump a nice clean line of sugar in the pale flesh. i mix it up, and smear it in between the pancakes.
sweet, and soft. and it feels good to eat.
i don't clean the plate entirely, so i begin to push the food around, flipping it and smushing it and chewing it and spitting it into napkins i then discard on the plate so it looks like i ate it all. and i imagine the blonde waitress coming back, i think i saw a corner of the nametag, maybe it was vivienne, petting my head, and smiling at me. i push the plate in front of me, and kick my legs, swinging them back and forth. im done! i bite on the meat of my thumb from the discomfort of that thought, downy and heavy in my brain.

i sit there, with the plate in the middle of the table, my coffee halfway done, and i look outside the window, watching the trucks roll by. they spray mud, and bounce and dip with the uneven road. i sit there for a while, just watching the cold light of day slowly turn into darkness beneath the clouds, and then slowly creeping into mid morning. i wave the waitress over, and she doesn't come. and i turn to look out the window by the booth again. men come in and coo and call at the waitress with the dark eyes, cause she's leaving, her shift finally over now. and she grins, her hair like dark chocolate, layered and choppy, pinned up in a bun, her forehead covered in a soft and feathery swish of bangs. she's wearing deep red lipstick and half of it is eaten away from her smoking all night. she waves goodbye to the men at the counter, and leaves. and i want to follow her for a moment, follow her like a duckling, and tug on her skirt. but i just watch her as her heels dig in the mud and her muscular calves maneuver the gigantic tire marks in the road, and she disappears into the morning.

i swing my legs in the booth, not making a sound, my palms feeling the cold leather of the booth. i watch people come, leave, i watch the rest of morning shift come in, and a couple point to me, to which the blonde waitress waves them off. i stare out the window again. there's a millipede, crawling around, navigating the chipped paint outside, as it crawls around past the windowsill.
i push my mug on the table once its empty, and rub it around, making a scraping sound on the table. the blonde comes over and fills my cup again, and her nail taps the ceramic for a moment as she keeps it from spilling. i push my palms into the heat as the coffee steams. she's still keeping up a conversation with another waiter while she does this, and i stare down into my cup, before dumping more sugar into the pit. i look up at her breast, and her name is vivienne. i make a tiny chirping sound, and tilt my head at my cup, asking. i raise it to my lips, and i clink my teeth on the ceramic, watching the men at the counter talk and breathe heavily, smelling the salt and gunpowder on them.
as it's turning into afternoon, i feel the little music box in my chest start to whirr and spin, clicking and excitedly thunking each note in my sternum. the truck i know pulls in. rusted and crusted with old mud and blood, the bed that creaks when it's loaded, weighed down by many warm bodies. i place my cash on the table, slipping it under the mug, and i lean down and place a small kiss on the rim, my presence forgotten by any imprint.
i walk outside, and watch with my hands clasped behind my back, staring as the red truck backs up next to the butcher's across the road. the man in the passenger seat exits, and he glances at me, once. his eyes flit away, as the driver motions him towards the bed of the truck. i lean forward from my spot against the wall of the diner, and stare.

he has dark hair, brunette, soft and hazy shades of black and brown, like rabbit fur. his eyes are a lurid black, too much for his face. his hands, calloused and muscular, grasped and pulled up the heavy bodies of bucks. almost protectively, he pulled their bodies over his shoulders, walking them into the red building, stained with mud stigmata all over. each time, he'd come out, stare at me as he leaned over the bed of the truck, his forearms and biceps twisting and snapping taut as he pulled the legs of the elk. swinging them up over his sloping shoulders, muscular and soft in their structure. his brow would furrow, twitch, and he would try and wipe the cold blood from the killing shots that would smear on the muscles of his neck.
i watched until the bed of the truck was empty, just little bloody fur imprints left, and the smear of some hooves. he's talking with some other men, and the driver of the truck forks over some cash, shakes hands with him and ruffles his hair, to which he glances over at me again with a scowl. he talks for a little, i watch his body shift under the tightness of his shirt. there's sweat that's beaded up on his forehead, dripping on his hair that falls over the front of his face, and how in the coldness of afternoon, his body steams, not just his breath, in the biting frost.

he walks over to me, across the road, and his boots dig into the mud. he looks stern, piercing, and i stare up at him as he comes close, tilting my head up at him.
"good morning." he says, his breath husky and soft, and i watch the steam flow from the corners of his mouth, soft tendrils against the spots of sun and dark clouds, as it curls around his face and his hair. i'm silent, and i rock on my heels slightly.
his lip curls, and he sighs gently, his chest pressing into the fabric under his unzipped jacket. "you always like it when i say blessed day more, don't you?" he makes a slight chuckle, and then his head swivels to look at the truck, which is driving back down towards the forest. i watch the muscles of his neck and shoulder ripple, as they coordinate the movement.

he turns back to me, and gives me a small smile, or smirk, or something about his expression changes. "did you go to church yet today, little lamb?" he asks in his hoarse voice, his tone soft. i shake my head silently.
"waiting for me again?" he asks. he breathes out deeply, more steam leaving his mouth.
i nod wordlessly, and blink slowly. he nods, and then turns to begin walking, stuffing his hands in his jacket pockets. i follow behind, letting my hands swing, as i try and step lightly enough to not get my boots stuck in the mud. he watches me out of the corner of his eye, and i see the pupil expanding and contracting, flitting between the road and my body beside his, just a step behind. other people walk past, or pass our pace, even if i have to walk double time to keep up with him. the air around him is warm, so i try and walk as close to him as i can. we walk down the streets of town, until we come upon the cathedral.

it is, a massive structure. it comes up out of the earth, the door halfway sunken in the mud. in the mud and dead trees that surround it, erect, stands the mighty tower of the cathedral. its white stone, now muddied and soiled from rainwater, carves its spot on the thin and pale horizon. sprawling thicket around the arched cone of the gate shelter it from nakedness, obscuring the eroded engravings of sacrificial scenes. the pale stone had once depicted the sacrifices of the angels, and now just displays the impression that once there was something meaningful in the stone, shapes and expressions of suffering. the stone is adorned with a lacework of dark marble to curtain the windows and ledges etched into the structure. upwards, the white stone that is not muddied it almost pink in the ugly light of the sun. fleshy, the stone is discolored, pale and softened, small veins of towering, fearful curves and spinal arches in the stone. the top, a lantern and spire, the stone gradiented from ivory to dark black stone and metal. the spire of our cathedral, forever, has been thought to be an angel in sacrificial form. the washed out and languid stains of sick birds, that smash their bodies right into it stain its delicate body with their blood. their sallow flesh and feathers christening the architecture in swollen pink and red entrails. it is almost a pilgrimage, i imagine. to fly your whole life, avoiding the dark tresses of trees and the sweeping winds that slam them to the earth. but somehow, there is comfort, there is familiarity, there is an endless pull, to let your spine crumple, and the fever of life explode from your body, a ceremony of hopelessness. in the night, you can almost hear them, crying out as their life is crushed from their brains, and spilled over the tip of the spire.

he guides me into the sunken mud, opening the door for me. the wood once depicted intricate carvings of some saint, talking to the figure of an angel, the wood billowing and distorting the once holy faces in the dark grain.
the inside of the cathedral, is monstrous. i don't know if the cathedral had been built first, and the people flocked to it blindly, or if the arrival of the people in this spot of earth aroused it into existence. the curves of the ceiling tower up, crypt-like and dark, huge and delicate chandeliers swinging softly in the still air. the pews are numerous, dark, and the aisle, carpeted in deep brown and starry tufts. the carpet twisting and turning into a tapestry of different saints, their bodies translated into the threads as permanently warm, soft flesh, and closed eyes, angelic faces, almost childish, as the carpet sprawls down into the choir. the stained glass windows besides each row, depict the scenes of purity. my favorite, being the one depicting the story of the rabbit who gives birth to a human son.
above the pews, upon the ceiling, the billowing stone had carved out into huge groin vaults, which web and turn into tangled rib vaults, like lace out of stone.
as we wipe our feet, he reaches out a hand, offering to keep me steady, but never touches me. i look up at him, wide eyed, and he gives me a small nod. we walk down, and take a seat, as the priest reads his scripture, his voice penetrative in the quiet incense of the air.
him and i sit in the pews, listening for a while. his hands rest on his thighs, and his dark eyes stare off. i stare at the stained glass depiction of the rabbit mother, looking at the way the glass had been shaped to represent her holy black veil. after a moment, he turns to notice where my attention is, and looks at it too, then back at me.

"you get something to eat while you were waiting?" he asks in a deep whisper. i nod silently, crinkling my nose as he tries to speak in the cathedral. my voice here doesn't feel so tied up and bound, my mouth feels like it could move, but i don't dare interrupt the priest. the organ plays gently in the background, and the priest waves the small chain of incense, wafting the smell into the air. i feel somewhat dizzy, and he looks over at me, blinking slowly, and reaches out his hand to me gingerly, as if asking. i shake my head.
he wraps his fingers around the scruff of my neck anyway, cold and tentative, and his fingers press into the muscle slightly, and he thumbs upwards. the priest comes over to each pew, to the few people sitting there for them to take a blessing. eventually he makes his way to us, and holds out a cherry to me, which i bite between my teeth and suck the flesh off, spitting the pit into the little cup the priest carries.
the priest calls to him, and he turns his dark eyes towards the man. he stares at me as i spit the pit into the priest's cup, and does the same, having to reach his torso forward over me. i watch his teeth reach to take the cherry off the stem, and as his mouth and tongue move in his cheek to suck the flesh off. his eyes stare up at the priest, losing their sharpness, softening and becoming placid, as he spits the pit into the cup. the priest touches his fingers to each our heads, and rubs down the bridge of our noses, saying a soft, warm, blessing.
i swing my feet off the pew as the priest moves away, and i look at him beside me, his eyelids heavy over his eyes, and he seems calm. he blinks, and slowly turns to look down at me again. his soft eyes slowly wither back to their usual sharpness, and he sits in the pew silently beside me for a little while. he watches me passively, my eyes following as the priest visit the other people in the pews, and how they spit the pits out. once he's collected the pits from all attending, the priest makes his way back up to the podium slowly.

he leans down close to my ear, and i can smell him, like animal skin, yarrow, and blue sage.
"you know, i saw something, last night, in the forest." he whispers, as the priest begins to chant, taking a match to the herbs and petals of a sacred tea. the smoke wafts into the air, and the quiet chanting continues. i look up at him, my wide dark eyes questioning.
he shifts for a moment in his seat, and watches the smoke from the tea waft into the air, the fragrant smell billowing through the cathedral as it burns.
"down in the mud, where its all marsh in the summer and the mud's gone cold, downwind. i was following a buck. it um, lead me down through where those old houses, the one we visited last summer. where we found the closet."
he pauses to look at me, making sure im following along. im still staring at the priest as he chants and wafts the smoke around.
my eyes quickly snap back to look at him. his lips curl slightly, like the small suggestion of a smirk, in amusement at my inattentiveness.
"by those old houses, i was crouched in the dirt by them on the hill, where the grass with the little tufts grow. the ones you said look like doetails." he whispers. i nod slightly, my hair swaying with the movement.
"i was laying on my belly with my rifle, watching a stag, and there was a woman looking out of the window. the house where the ceiling is all molded. that one. some woman was standing there, watching me through the window of the attic. staring."
i turn to look at him, and his eyes are on the priest, as his lips hang open for a moment, and his jaw shuts. he looks down at me with half lidded eyes. "she looked-" he gestures at his face with an open palm. "sorrowful? fearful?" he shakes his head for a moment. "strangely placid. her head was tilted, her eyes looking down at me like she was mourning." he pauses, and his fingers that rest on his thigh stutter and jump for a moment. "those houses, they're in that little dip where the grass is all worn and dead. the hill i was laying on with my rifle, its above them." he says mostly to himself, and his tongue runs over his teeth for a second, and a wave of confusion and worry veils his expression. he shakes his head again, seemingly giving up on the idea.
my brow scrunches up, and i make a small thinking huff, and then stare at the priest. he's pouring the blessed water, cleansed from the smear of repulsion, a motionless reflection of a home to return to. the priest pours it gently over the flames, and the smoke hisses, and softens, a sweet cloud hanging over the pews. he takes a deep breath, and closes his eyes, the smoke blanketing over us as it passes.
i look up at him beside me, at his face, his strong brow, his jaw, and his eyelashes. his brow furrows slightly, his scowl never seemed to disappear despite his expression.
the priest comes, and he does not smile as he places his fingers on the underbelly of my jaw, and tilts my face towards him, to have me sip the brewed ashes. i take a long sip, and drool escapes my mouth down my chin. the priest clears his throat, and he opens his eyes. he turns to look at the priest, offering his mouth, and the priest touches the underbelly of his jaw, and lets him drink too. i want to repeat the action. i watch the priest's fingers grace his face, and i see his adam's apple bob as he drinks, and i want to repeat the action, and feel his throat moving and the warmth of his body. the priest moves on from our pew.

i reach my hand up, and almost touch his throat. he's staring down at me, like a dog would a puppy. he tilts his head slightly, his eyes slowly watching as i reach up, my fingers almost on his skin, but i don't touch him. his scowl is muted, and the muscles of his face are still and he reaches his hand to where mine is hovering, and presses my fingers against the skin. his adam's apple feels like the cherry pit that had been under my tongue, and my fingertips press gently. he swallows, and i feel it push and swell, and then retreat. i blink, and he almost smiles, and brings my fingers up to the underside of his jaw, and i mimic how the priest held his face.




when the service ends, he walks with me. there's a soft snow falling from the dark clouds, and the sound of bells echo through the town. not only from the cathedral, but from the many sheep that are being lead through the muddy road. he turns his body to face me, and i'm staring at the sheep. he smiles slightly, and then makes a soft sighing sound.
"you're headed back now?" he asks hoarsely. my attention snaps back up to him, and i pause for a second, before silently nodding. he looks at me through half lidded eyes, and then makes a slight humming sound.
"why don't you come to my house. instead." he says softly. he takes out a pack of cigarettes, and pops one in his mouth, cradling the flame as he flicks on his lighter. he takes a deep inhale, and finally breathes out the soft cone of smoke he was holding in his lungs. .

his house is located on the east outskirt, while mine is on the north. its him and his father who live there. the house is a sun washed blue, peeled and faded, like an old shawl. his father, the shepherd, is a man who is also a terror.
his house is filthy. its not his, he just lives in it. but the grain of the wood is all warped, shaped strangely, and the house smells like dark vetiver and rotting clothing. the kitchen has beer stains on the ceiling, and the little starry kisses of black mold all on the wallpaper. there's grocery bags on the counters, and whatever they were carrying had died and gone to heaven a long time ago. the shadows smother the walls, the wallpaper all peeled.
i look up at him, and he seems tired. he gently pinches my wrist in his hand, and walks me down the hall, to a molded door. the color almost looks fuzzy, taupe and battered. the paint's mostly chipped off, all thats left are imprints of boots, and splintered wood.
his room, is much nicer looking. his bed is simple, the mattress is a bit broken, and dips strangely in some spots. the blankets seem clean, just deeply stained, a once white prayer shawls now mottled cookie colors. there's a little silver charm sewed into one of the stitches. in the pale darkness, when you are buried, i hope there will be nothing in you to hurt, for Ilya. on the nightstand, a figurine of a woman in a veil, her stomach pregnant, and inside, a little baby lamb. the belly is transparent, the plastic flesh colored where it connects to her groin and her sternum. he has two more boxes of cigarettes, not menthol, and a box of tissues. he's taking off his shoes, and mattress sinks under his weight. he looks at me, and i stare back at him.
he runs his hands through his hair, and sighs deeply, his chest throbbing with breath. i walk closer to him, and he stares at me. we're equal height now that he's sitting on the bed.
"s'okay." he says gruffly, and his scowl fades slightly, his brow now creasing upwards.
i reach, and place my hand against his chest, where his breast muscle is, and feel at how his chest is beginning to breathe deeply.
is this how men are aroused? once they're in a room, where the door is shut and it's quiet? i can see how his body is beginning to adapt, to prepare itself, as his chest moves slowly, and his shirt divets in the outline of his body. his pupils are beginning to blow out, i can see it in the light from the window how the dusk of his eyes glow in the dying light of the afternoon. i feel sick. and i want to crawl up into him, and dig out under his ribcage, and hide myself away in there. i want to make his body a rabbit warren, and i want to watch those sharp eyes go from soft, to empty, to rotted and putrefied.
he gently takes my hand, and moves it over his chest, and i can feel his heart now, his body is so warm, almost feverish, and his eyes drag over me like a velvet blanket.
"i feel sick." i whisper, my voice unused since i prayed in the darkness of the morning.
he stares at me, with that subdued sharpness, his facial muscles twitching.
"where?" he hovers his hand over my body, and moves it. i watch it hover over my breasts, down my stomach, where he stops it for a moment, before moving down over my womb, over my groin. his hand retracts, and he thumbs the hem of his shirt. he takes his jacket off, and i can feel the heat pulsing off of him.
"inside." i mumble.
he nods.
he is a beautiful man. and in that way, he is terrible. his hands twitch, and i watch his musculature of his body swell and shrink with how his blood flows and shifts. i lift them hem of his shirt, and lean down and look. the lines of his body were soft, curving. he was born a son, and his body kept that way, shepherding itself, like a wolfdog, eating itself in the bitter winter.
i imagine his mother when she birthed him, seeing he was a boy, and thinking that he would grow up to protect her. i imagine his father seeing his genitals and breathing a sigh of relief, knowing he'd have a son to push himself onto, to break and tear apart with his teeth, and an unbearable pain to lean into.
i want to put ilya in a muzzle. i want to put him in a cage.
i press my face into his stomach, and he lets out a sharp breath, falling back a bit on the bed. i can feel the anatomy of his core struggling and twitching against the pressure of my face, and i close my eyes. its all a jumbled mess of dark and trembling movement and thumping. he even chuckles slightly, barely. my nose is cold, and his tummy warms it. my chin can feel his happy trail, and i give his navel a chaste kiss. i withdraw my face, and he's smiling, just slightly, barely, in that heavy scowl. he's gentle, as he reaches up and lightly touches my face, and moves his hand down to the scar above the hem of my camisole, a blown out smear of scar tissue, which his thumb feels firmly.
he's silent for a moment, and his eyes just slip under his eyelids, red and tired. he looks like he's about to cry any moment, his brow knitted together, his gaze like a ram, great terrible structures of horns, and black and cream thick wool to sink into. so warm, i don't mind if he drives the breath out of my throat, and splinters my ribs.


his hands come up to wrap around my waist, feeling at the inelegant way my body was put together. his fingers move around my stomach and feels at the ribs under my shirt, his breath is quick and heavy, his lips hanging open. he moves one hand to his belt, unbuckling it, and i watch with distant wonder as his fingers muscle the metal of the belt out of the leather, and it jingles as he undoes it. he pulls me towards him, and i kneel on the bed, my dark eyes not blinking as i watch his movements. he feels at the stitching around me, his warm hands slipping under my clothes, as he pulls off my camisole, and begins to almost examine me, rubbing his fingers up the skin that drapes the muscle and bones of my spine. his scowl returns, pensive, as he presses his fingers under my panties, and finds me. i squirm in his grasp, as he cups me, pushing his palm up against me, to which i feel the suction of my own wetness create a stigmata on his hand. his fingers depress, then urge, and find their way into me.
i look down, and i let out a pained breath.
"where does it hurt?" he mumbles. my brow crinkles. "all over in me. it crawls inside me, comes back from the coffin, it digs its cold fingers in me, and i feel it pulling the veil over my body again." i choke out. Ilya looks at me with a stupid expression, his brow knit, in an almost mournful reverence.
"won't you purify me..." i hear myself beg in a whisper.

"its like i can only feel the way you're alive this way"
my eyes stare down at his wrist, the muscles of his forearms pulsing like a tide. "in what way?" i question, my voice crackling.
"the heat, the softness, i don't know. its the one place you're the least rotten in, where your body hasn't turned cold and wintry. i feel like i've torn you from a crypt, that you're motionless, deathlike divine." he whispers into the crook of my neck.
he twists his fingers again, and seems to be reaching up towards the halo of my cervix. i just look down forlornly. he's stuck his tongue out between his teeth in concentration, his hair falling down over his eyes. his teeth drag over the muscle of my cheek, over the bone, until it all drags down in my sleepless skin down the side of my face. his fingers curl up, as if reaching for me in my throat. my brow creased up, my lips hang open as if im going to say something. i don't shift, just watching the musculature of his fingers over his knuckles shift under the white soiled fabric of my underwear.
"lamb" he murmurs, shifting his weight to push me down against the bed. i can feel his free hand wandering up my navel, shifting against my hip bone, as he seems to feel at it, trying to grasp it like trying to flay duck meat off the bone, kneading the dough of my flesh, trying to get at it, to have the cradle of my pelvis in his hand. his fingers crawl up to my breast, and he cradles it, smearing his lips and nose into the pulse on my throat.
"feels like im trying to manhandle a fawn" he mutters, "you're just nothing in my arms, limp and weighted." he croons, grunting as he pushes his face down into the pulse of my neck, and i can feel his tongue beginning to push, as if trying to revive it.
his fingers come out of me to begin feeling my wrist. my own wetness sticks all over them, and his fingers slip for a moment before he looks down to concentrate of finding the vein to press on, to feel.
"christ, i can't feel anything in you." he keeps his fingers on my wrist, and looks at me, his eyes soft and dull, his chest instinctively heaving, taking in tight long breaths. makes me feel like im just a lamb like he said, staring up at his shepherd, or his priest.

my breath begins, and ends, and im trying to force something back to say to him, but i just feel so dead under him, and i feel like im being held backwards under the sink water. my father would put my nose and mouth under the rushing water, and let me breath it in, until he let me go and i'd collapse forward, spilling all of it inside me all over the kitchen floor, and i'd curl up while he'd curl his knuckles in my ribs, forcing his mouth onto mine to make me breathe.

"im losing you" he mutters, which is the first thing i hear again after thinking about it, and his fingers come up and cup my cheek, and he begins humming some of the prayer hymns i'd hear in the quiet halls of the cathedral in the night, rough and broken up, his voice straining for softness.

"don't stray too far" he whispers, diving his fingers down my navel again, and he hovers over my pubic bone, and squishes the fat there.

"you're humiliating me" i choke out on impulse, my voice all splintered. he shakes his head.

"no. i don't think you're a shameful thing." he says gruffly, letting out a ragged huff as he shifts his weight as he leans over me, removing his groin from my hip, his muddied jeans smearing down my once clean stockings. the sound of the bed creaking causes me to turn my head, and like a baby, he rubs a finger down the sallow fat of my cheek, making me turn my head back towards him, and a soft, ugly breath leaves my lips.
he stares at me, hovering over me. his shirt had ridden up, and i could see his navel, his happy trail, and the top of his boxers. the threads are all worn, and they hang like ivy over his undone belt. the way his hips veer, how his abdominals sit in his frame, the skin dipping, thick musculature, and strong shadows. his palm cups my cheek and he hums that prayer hymn again. i can smell the smoke, and the ashen tea he had drank in the cathedral on his breath.
i look over towards his nightstand, and then at the window, staring at the lace curtains, how they're torn and mottled in brown splatters at the bottom. he touches my face, turning my head gently back to look at him again.
he lowers himself on his forearms, his fingers feeling at my hair crumpled on his bed. i stare up at him, dumb and wide eyed. his brow is creased up, and his stomach touches mine, his hips moving up on my pelvis, as he kisses my forehead.

he whispers, and im silent. i reach my hand, over to the hand he used to touch me, and i feel his fingers. they're cold. he flexes them. the blankets on his bed make my spine itch, and i curve my spine up, and my breasts press up into him. he slides a hand under the small of my back, and rushing it up my spine, and it alleviates the discomfort, and his weight shifts on me.
he doesn't kiss me, not on the lips. i watch as the top of his head moves down, and he's dragging his lips over my throat, and down my chest, to the comet of scar tissue above my breasts. i feel the soft muscle of his tongue move over it, and he kisses me there, causing another swell of ache in my throat and up into my mouth. i choke out a small cry, and he looks up at me. i raise my hands, and pet him. my fingers feel at his scalp and his dark hair, and i push his hair from his forehead. his heavy scowl is gone in this moment, but returns as i stare at him. the pads of my fingers feel his brow, and he closes his eyes, opening them slowly. i watch the dilation of his pupils, how they pulse and swallow. he swallows, and his adam's apple bobs against my breast. i cup my palms over his nose and mouth, the space between the tip of his nose and his lips from the depth of my palm just a soft breath. his eyes move around, and study me, blinking, and his hands move up to feel my ribs, feeling the notches of them, the stitches over my navel and torso. he pushes his face into my hands, closing his eyes and bowing his head, the side of my hand bumping his brow, as i feel his lips try and seek out the flesh of my palms.


his boxers slide down on his hips by an inch, and i stare at his pubic bone. there's a large smooth, strange scar down the top of his thigh, over the base of his manhood, no hair grows where the flesh is twisted and healed over. i run my fingers along the ridges of the scar tissue.

i am really sad that i will not go to heaven even now.
when i look in his eyes, i wonder if he will go to heaven, or if he will return to to the soft nipple of a sheep. i imagine ilya as a little puppy, tornado colored fur, being cradled in the muzzles of sheep mothers and ram fathers, warmed and held. maybe that is the heaven he will go to.
he bucks himself against me, he feels warm and very smooth, its really strange. he pushes his face up to mine, not kissing me, just pressing his lips and nose into the worn skin of my cheek, and i tongue the pressure back from inside my mouth. he makes a little breathy sound, a small chuckle, and kisses my forehead, down my brow. his lips try to find mine, but they never seem to meet. his lips hover, or lace around my mouth. i can't make myself try and copy his kissing. i know what kissing looks like, but to recreate it, it feels so disgusting. it feels cloying in the worst way, bleak, and like im trying to tug and press my heart through the ribs of vomit painted fingers, covered in blood and spit, the muscle of tongue a terrorizing thing trying to slip itself into me.
the way his mouth moves on me feels more like a dog, struggling against a muzzle to open its mouth, desperate to bite down, desperate to speak, to feel, to touch with its teeth and lips, needing to feel the pulse and heat in something, a satisfaction i can't offer him.
his mouth moves over me anyways, down my cheeks and jaw as he feels out my face with his. he lifts himself above me, and stares at me. his breathing is tight and ragged, and his brow is knit in some sort of examination or worry. he looks down to my lips, which tremble and are swollen with his stimulation and how im about to cry. he brings his hand up behind my head, and cradles me, before his muscles twitch, and he seems to be cautious as he leans down, placing his lips on mine. they just stay there, chastely, like he can't bring himself into my mouth. he already said i tasted strange, repulsive, so i just watch as his eyes stare back at mine, and then close, as he gives me soft, prayer kisses. he treats it like he'll break my jaw if he tries anything more.
he scarcely breathes. it's strange. the tears are falling down the sides of my face, and he picks himself up, hovering over me again.

he lays over me, not inside me, just against me. he strokes and cradles my head, and eventually we curl up beside each other.


when i was young, my father would bring me to the cemetery, laying me down in the dirt. i remember the cold, how my stomach would twitch from the chill, and how i'd look up at the night, as he would take my nightgown off, and drag me into the dirt, shoveling it onto us as he tried to keep me warm. in the backseat of my father's car, he'd drive me in the snow and frost, and the mud would be up to my thighs when it would melt, and he'd push me in the mud until i couldn't breathe.
i think about the suffocating feeling of my father's grip, the mud strangling my movement, and covering my spine, the way he'd tear me out of the dirt. he watches my eyes flicker around, and touches my cheek.
"Ilya" my broken voice whispers, as i come back to focus, the memory wilting before my eyes to reveal his scowling face, as he looks down at the smear of scar tissue on above my breast again. his eyes flit to attention, his brow relaxing.
my lips hang open as if to speak, but nothing happens.
he pushes my face to his chest, and my hands wrap around his waist and chest, digging my cold fingers into him. he feels me, and i feel him, for a moment. he pushes my head under his chin, and rubs my hands up my shoulders and back, over my shoulderblades, and down the notches of my spine. "you're safe." he whispers, and i feel it reverberate in his chest and throat.

i bury my face in the crook of his neck, pushing my lips and nose into the warm skin and muscle. we lay there, until the light coming from his curtains is dimming, and the sting of cold sends my fingers careening into his stomach to search for warmth. he pulls me tighter against him, pulling my clothing back on for me, pushing up the fabric of my panties and pulling my sweater over my head, delicate with the lace. "forgot, about the heat. we only get it for an hour at night" he chuckles slightly; his voice a serene whisper. it's a foreign sound coming from him, as he rubs his cheek against mine, and i can feel the texture of his slight stubble, just under his skin.

the sound of a distant door swinging open, creaking and shuddering against its hinges echoes into the house. ilya's muscles all ripple, straining, as his body tears itself up in its terror. i can hear his heart beginning to thunk into his chest, like a body tumbling down an endless cliff. his breath overlaps itself, and he clutches me, like im turning to ash and swept out into the sky.

"Ilya" the snarling and muffled voice of a man ghosts through the wood.
his father, the shepherd. i've seen him many times, in town. when i'd make my way to church as a child, adorned in my white veil, and soft fleece sweater and white rabbit cuffs, my father would send me off with a bag for Ilya's father. my mud soaked mary jane's would kick up dirt into my clothes, and i'd find them in the pews. hand off the heavy plastic bag to his father, to which he'd pet my head, his hand engulfing my skull. his father would coo to me, and pinch my wrist for being late to the service.
Ilya would be dressed in his veil too, though it was more of a gingerbread color from being unwashed, the lace being torn around his face, so i could see him under it. and he wouldn't speak at all, not around his father. his dark hair wiry and long, down the back of his neck. it sprawled and tangled all around his forehead and cheeks, framing him in rabbit furred tendrils. and as a child, his eyes were velveteen, and far away. and i'd watch his father during the service, rub Ilya's back and neck, his father's hands under his veil, and tugging his face up, digging the blood worn nails into his skin. he'd scold him quietly, in a deep, sweet tone to pay attention.

Ilya stares at the door, with eyes so wide, his pupils snapping, so small they could pass through the eye of the needle, seeing into hell. the lilting thuds of footsteps, swaying and slow towards his room. Ilya, slides me under him, my knees to my chest, and i look up at him, mute again. he pulls me into him, and i can feel him whispering what sounds like another prayer song against my hair, his muscles tugging on each other in dread, like a chorus all screaming at once, his body instantly in desperation.
the footsteps, each a penetrative thump in the creaking wood on the floor. the door swings open, and his father's silhouette in the darkened house can only be imagined at. Ilya's face shifts up, and his father approaches the bed.
his father seems to ignore me, instead grasping Ilya's face in one palm, pulling him up, and off of me. i stare up, eyes wide my eyelashes whispering to my eyelids as I stare up. Ilya's father stares down at him, and pulls his head like you would a naughty dog, and Ilya tries to pull away, for just a moment, before his father slams his knuckles into his back, causing him to sputter and gasp for breath, and his body surrenders, before he tries to look at me, those velveteen eyes returning. "need to-" he swallows, before letting out a small yelp, like a young boy would, at his father man-handling him. even through all of Ilya's muscles, his body retreats and abandons itself, at his father's grasp.
"window" he mumbles, his father ignoring me completely as he drags Ilya, who weakly and uncoordinatedly tries to stand or pull away, his legs and arms trembling like a newborn calf. he looks like he's drowning, as his father grasps at his body, slamming his face into the wood of the headboard. i look towards the window, its broken latch, and lace curtains billowing in winter's infancy, its cold night. i stare, thinking to leave, thinking to not watch this terror, but i can't manage it, i can't move at all. the sun is disappearing into its absolute darkness.
i make small whimpers and distressed sounds, as i try and slip my hands between his father's palm and his body. i pull on Ilya's waist and stomach, making incoherent throaty growls. Ilya's body is dead weight. in desperation, i shield his body with mine, trying to curl him and push myself ontop of him, his blank face and glazed over eyes staring up at my stomach, and i grasp and pull him under me.
his father stares down, his teeth gritting, as he grasps Ilya's wrist, and easily drags him away from me, no matter how much i tug and thrash myself to deter his father. i make cries and shrieks, as his father pushes me down, and the wind is knocked out of me. i struggle for breath, making an uncoordinated groan and cry of despair as i try and fill myself with breath.
Ilya's body is crumpled on the floor, and his father stumbles heavily to me, grasping my arm and swinging me up, and dragging me into a small closet. he throws me inside, and the doors are closed, and propped shut with a chair. i pound on the bloated and moldy wood, making mewls and shrieks and every sound that could leave my lips. my nails scratch the pink paint, my feet kick at the tiny plastic windows.

i can't get out. and ilya can't either. i see through the scratched plastic, his father over him, like a swell, crashing down on him. the soft sounds of Ilya's breath forced out of his ribs, the way his body doesn't move. his father's spine curling. i hear Ilya's breath snapping and gasping, and his muscles twitch or lay fearfully still from what little i see.
his father like a house tormented, like the soul is being strangled out of the cradle of Ilya's body. he looks almost little under his father, his musculature all softening and wasting away in an instant. his father's hands blanket his face and throat, his hips, and the metal of his father's belt twinkles in the frail light of the moon through the curtains.
i can't breathe, slamming my shoulder into the doors of the closet, slamming the sides of my fists into the wood. it's soft, but i don't know if im strong enough to splinter it. i don't know if Ilya is strong enough not to splinter under his father.
i'm mouthing the tiny plastic windows of the closet doors. i careen my body into the too solid wood, to dislodge the chair outside. my lungs hurt, my body hurts. i make weak gasps and suck in air and try and push it through my larynx, crying out brokenly and weakly, what i want my words to be just becoming ghostly whispers. my eyes feel stuck open, and i don't know how long it is before it's over, and i can see his father heaving himself up through the blurry plastic.

all i see is the crumpled figure of Ilya's form prone on the floor.

i try and force my fingernails through the slit in the door, try and claw at it to make the gap wide enough. i use just about any part of my nails or clothing to push through the gap, to try and jostle the chair free. it's getting dark in ilya's room, and the skin of his back is illuminated by the dim moon. it's cold too, my fingers burning, my nose cold when i press my lip up against it to sniffle.

eventually, i begin to slam my head against the doors, as hard as i can. the chair comes loose, clattering to the floor, and i fall out of the small closet, the corners of the chair digging into my body as i scramble and crawl across the floor to ilya.

his eyes stagger and trail across nothing, half lidded and dull. his lips hang open, swollen and long trails of spit clinging from his lips to the floor. his throat has thick bands of bruises, his breath coming out in fettered fleeting gasps. i cradle him into my lap, trying to feel around his mouth to open up his airways more. he drools over my hand, but i just stick my fingers in his throat, to which his body barely gags, his muscles never tensing or collapsing over my fingertips. i shake him gently, pat his face. he doesn't look at me, looking around at nothing. i make little wailing gasps, beginning to cry. i shake him more, bringing his face to my chest, and rubbing his spine. the sound of his father still walking around the house, the cold wood shrieking and weeping. i claw at my own throat, dread embracing and sheltering me in its twilight.
his dark eyes look like the foggy distant cathedrals of the city, imposing and blurred. the soft moonlight seems to be swallowed in his eyes, a dim lantern tangled in the iron lacing of his lashes. i begin to pull him, heaving his heavy body, dragging him. i drag him down the hallway of his house, seeing his father pissing in a corner of one of the bedrooms. i drag him as fast as i can, like a sled dog, pulling his muscular arms over my shoulders, and tying the bands of my camisole round his wrists.
i drag him through the mud and soft dirt outside, drag him through the downy grass, cold and beaded with the freezing tears of wintry night. her wings of white clouds shelter over the darkness of the sky, and the moon and stars all scream down at us in the grass. i pull Ilya's body through the dirt.

little pill bugs curl under my nails, dirt scraping my palms and knuckles. i weakly hum a psalm i know, staring up through burning eyes, the deep blue of night refracting on the the colossus of clouds that sweep over the sky. my breath is weak, lungs burning in the cold, my muscles straining. i can see the street lamps in town glowing soft and yellow, golden kisses of warmth underneath this frost. my arms and legs shake as i crawl, Ilya's head lolling on my shoulder. i stumble and writhe in the dirt, each fading breath a prayer for strength.
i don't know where i'm taking him. i don't know where to go. it's late in the night, and my muscles ache. little bits of snow begin to fall, pincers of cold on my skin and eyelids. i look back at Ilya over my back, and touch the side of his face, his eyes barely open, his breath hoarse and shallow. i drag his body towards the cathedral in town. the streets are utterly quiet, besides scattered lights from the maws of towering attics and bedrooms. pale luminescence glowing from behind curtains, and drowning in the boundless and wet darkness, never reaching the ground. who watches us from above, i do not know.

i push the cathedral doors with my head, and they creak open, enough to squeeze through Ilya's body and mine.

on my hands and knees, i stumble and crawl on the carpet, smearing it with mud and frost. the cathedral smells heavily of honeycomb, night blooming flowers, and dark incense. the smell of holywater permeates from the choir of the cathedral, where i crawl to, and make my way to the back, banging on the priest's chamber door. the sound of gentle footsteps murmur, and i try to sit myself on my knees, Ilya's chin resting on my collarbone.
it's a younger priest who answers, not the usual one who gives service. he's shorter, muscular arms from digging out in the cemetery. i often see him in the stormy mist, praying and walking into the tombs to clean and bless them.
he looks down at me with washed out eyes, almost brown, mostly grey, like birch trees. as a novitiate, to show his virtue, his hair has been washed into strange ashen and black colors. i look up at him, in his novitiate robes, gossamer and downy fabrics that pool around his feet. his ribbon collar hung down his back, and the tail ends wavered and gleamed in the soft candlelight.
i gasp out a strained breath, grasping the skirt of his robes, and tugging. the novitiate kneels down beside me, his expression soft and disturbed. he untangles Ilya's hands from the straps of my camisole, dark imprints on his skin from the tension, and the elastic hangs slack off my shoulders. i watch the young man lay Ilya down on the floor, and feeling his pulse and breath. the young man briskly walks off, and comes back to tie a veil over Ilya's soft and placid face. the novitiate struggles to lift his limp body, but manages, carrying him into the priest's chamber. his steps are still soft and quiet as i follow behind, bumping into his side in my own nervousness. i follow blindly, enraptured in a memory.

blinding grey day, i remember the way the rain and sleet blurred like a soft smudge of lipstick over everything. under my cathedral veil, i had come home, stumbling in the soft snow, my little body swollen with ache and hurt. back to the house, creeping open the door. my father waiting, as he rips my veil off, his large hands branding me. all my sickness, torment thundering through me, i become a little corpse, as he took me apart, put me back together the wrong way, over and over. gravedigger sainthood. i remember the way he grabbed my face by my cheeks, all my little teeth biting down into the cold satin flesh. staring down at myself, i think i flew, great storm of the colossus wings, thundering in my ears rhythmically, i think i flew. i could see my little body crumpled there on the carpet beneath me. and i knew, he was not happy i would not die. he did not love that i had come back from the cathedral catacomb, silent and silken. i knew, he hated the divinity bestowed upon me in the dirt.

he did love snuffing out the heat in my body.

the novitiate lays Ilya down on a small altar, curling his form on his side. the young man gestures for me to take his hands, and i do, holding Ilya's calloused fingers in mine. soft tulle and lace curtains are drawn around us, and the novitiate breathes softly, pensive and worried. he does not speak, but i know he wants to, the way his throat twitches. i turn back to Ilya, and try and squeeze his hands, rubbing his sternum. the novitiate leaves, nodding his head. "pray, and i will too, you may have shelter here, in the breath of this night." his dull voice whispers, as he leaves the small altar chamber.
i curl up on the altar with Ilya, cramping my form into place. i draw my hand up to his cheek, and stroke it. his breathes softly, and i hope he's dreaming. i lay there next to him, praying brokenly, whispering to him.
"in.. cathedral... ah, safe..." my eyes burn with tears, as i force words from my lips for him. i bury my face into the crook of his neck, and feel his pulse against my lips and nose, soft, but steady.

it's not until the cold light of day begins to cast a colorful stained glass light upon the altar, that Ilya's eyes flicker, and look around, his eyelids opening, and his heart speeding up again. i grasp his hands, wide eyed, as he comes out his shock. i press his face to my chest, and try and hold him tightly, to offer some sort of comfort. his brow furrows, as he clings back to me, his grip almost painful around me. i run my nails in a halo over his forehead, and try and make little strangled cooing noises to him. his body heaves for breath, as he sits up shakily on the altar. his lips hang open as he looks down at me.
"you.. brought me all the way here?" his voice is rough, deep and gravelly. he feels his throat, wincing.
i nod. he doesn't smile, but instead pets my head. "strong as a bear, for such a little doe." he mutters.
Ilya runs his hands through his hair, his breath hitching and hiccupping. he presses his knuckles into his eyes, trying not to cry it seems as he grimaces, and leaning forward to curl up on himself. i push my face into his forearms, and into his chest, and he holds me, as i rub his back.

"know.. it hurts." i whisper out brokenly.
the novitiate comes back to the small altar room, smiling somberly seeing Ilya's come out of his shock. the novitiate draws the veil over his face, Ilya's eyes soft and shameful. the young man prays, and brings a warm liquid, milky and thin, to Ilya's lips. he places his palm against Ilya's head, and says a lengthy and worn prayer, for shelter, for purification.

"beloved child, who strikes you with this dread, who makes you terrorized? the angels know, but they do not wish you to awash yourself in silence." the novitiate mumbles grimly, his wintry robes shifting as a cool gasp of air flutters around the altar room.

Ilya does not say a word, instead bowing his head, his eyes soft, almost in a dreamlike trance. "i am far past salvation." is all he says.

the novitiate sighs, kneeling down to him. "there is always mercy for you here. always shelter." the novitiate turns to me. "my silent child, do you wish to bestow me with your grace? may i offer you both a warm hand?" he whispers.
my breath is heavy, as i strain myself. i cling to the novitiate's robes, hoping the soft fabrics will create a gentle shelter for my voice. the young man places his palm upon my head, and gives me a forgiving smile at the little sounds that i force out. i swallow hard. "hurt.. body."

the novitiate stands, and nods, walking off. he returns with the usual priest. i remember he was only a novitiate when Ilya and I were young attending service. his face is ashen, disturbed. Ilya hides his face beneath his veil, pressing his forehead to his knees. the priest walks over, patting my head, and stands over Ilya who sits curled up on the altar. the priest gently cups Ilya's face, and lays him down. he examines his body, and the novitiate holds a small bowl of red liquid, viscous and thick, strong smelling like frankincense and goat's milk.
the priest draws the curtains around the altar, as he undresses Ilya, as if he were a little boy, and the novitiate paints his hands with a small cloth dripping in that viscous substance. i watch from outside the curtains, as Ilya groans and stares up in despair.
i stare off at the stained glass of the altar room, stormy and pale colors, depicting a sainted angel, her mouth and body bound, kneeling in front of a tomb in the night, her wings large and white, glowing in the grey sun that shines through them. i forget the story it comes from. but in that moment, i see her watching over us.

the priest makes a sad sound, breath leaving his lips, and the novitiate's lip trembles, as he bows his head. a soft blanket is drawn over Ilya's body, and the turn him on his side. i can barely make out Ilya's grimace, his face pale and full of discomfort, under his gritted teeth and heavy scowl.
"seek shelter here, my beloved child, your body is sacred, and we will hold you here." the priest's low and whispery voice laps at the curtain. Ilya shakes his head.
"i have work to do." his eyes stagger off somewhere else.
the priest rubs his hands together, stained with that deep red liquid, and attempts to gently place his hand on Ilya's hip, to which he glares at the priest, baring his teeth.
"it'll do no good to hunt in this condition. i fear for you, beloved son." the priest murmurs, examining a band of bruised muscle on his abdominals. Ilya shirks the priest's fingers, falling off of the altar, and scrambling away, his heavy footsteps thudding as he attempts to wrap the blanket from the altar on his body. his breathing is ragged, and suffocates in the altar room, as he clings to the far wall. the novitiate's eyes widen, and he takes a step forward, to which Ilya makes a low growling groan. he then vomits all over the cool tile, falling to a heap on his knees. "can't breathe" he chokes out, spitting and shaking.

i slowly walk towards him, to his strong body heaving and coughing, and he looks up at me, those dark eyes wide and too big. the novitiate hands me a washcloth, and i gently wipe Ilya's chin and lips, and the novitiate offers him a small porcelain cup of water. he drinks eagerly, swishes it around and spits it, and the novitiate walks off to clean the puddle of vomit.
"they'll disappear. it'll be like, never happened. i'll forget." Ilya mumbles. he crinkles his nose, and pushes the heels of his palms into the sides of his head, making a pained groan.
"i'll forget." Ilya's voice wavers, crackling and whimpering, as if that phrase is strangling him in this moment. he pushes his hands over his eyes. i try and push my face between his forearms again, and curl my fingers around his calloused hands, peeling them off his cheeks.

"what he does to me. it's not real." he mumbles. "he loves me. i'm a bad son, and he forgives me." he whispers. his sullen look, washed out and pale, his breath smells like sickness and spit. his musculature trembles, he shakes in the aftershock of his sickness, like a little raven stuck in chickenwire, cutting into his flesh.
he cries out for his father, and covering himself in the altar blanket. the priest puts a hand on my shoulder.
"my silent child, why don't you take him to your home, so he may rest."

the novitiate helps Ilya stand, and he waves the young man off, that regular sharpness returning to his eyes. he sighs, and grasps my hand, having me hold onto his arm, which i oblige. the novitiate gives him more water, and more of a milky substance, to which he downs, swishes around, spits out. the novitiate says a soft and feathered prayer to both of us, and in the twilight of morning, we leave the cathedral. its cold out, and my camisole has slipped down to my stomach, the broken and stretched elastic at my elbows. Ilya pushes back his veil as we come out of the cathedral in the darkness of morning.
i don't think either of us have much to say, my fingers digging into the muscles of his forearm. i look up at him, as the wilted sun rises underneath the blanket of snowstorm clouds, swollen and mottled with umber. his eyes are the same, rimmed in tearstains and shadow. he looks somber, almost serene, numb. i pinch his wrist, and he looks down at me.
"tired. just need a cigarette." he says wistfully, his voice full of grief.
he leans down and kisses my lips, chastely, with a kind of cream affection, downy and sore. i feel him against my mouth, and want to bite down, to hold him to me, and not let go. he's in my mouth, against the gate to the cemetery, and tastes my tongue as if it is holy water in his lips, purifying his body as he drinks me. i sob and hiccup, and he clutches me, swaying and rocking me as rain and snow fall together in the dark morning.
"you're sacred, to me. i know it's the same. we've both been pissed away." he mumbles in the kiss, his teeth clicking together in desperation.
i wail, pushing my face into him, and i bite down on his shirt, slamming my fists on his chest. the frustration in me like crushing little does, their feverish little hearts scratching and careening in my chest and stomach. i suck in air raggedly. he ribbons his fingers through my hair, and cradles my head. i can barely mumble any babble or syllable, so i just stare up at him, my lashes all stuck together with tears and the cold.
Ilya's face twists up in a grim and sorrowful expression, and he just mutters a small hymn under his breath, leaning us against the cold cemetery gate. his boots dig into the dirt, his hands tremble, as he cups my face, singing mournfully. i lean into his touch, watching his lips barely move to form the sweet words of reverence in an effort to stop his large hands on my cheek from shaking so much.

the wind is hot on my skin from the chill, my blood rushes around in my ears and mouth. our steps pepper and softly sink in the falling hail and snow. my cheeks flush as my body tries to stay warm. my ribs and back are sore. Ilya doesn't say much, his hoarse voice thrumming with soft sounds. he keeps me upright, his muscles trembling in small devotional raptures. his dark eyes are soft and far away, yet quickly darken and turn black when they meet mine. he looks down on me, keeping me against him. i don't know how i carried him to the cathedral.

a lonesome crane flies down through the snow, black and thin, calling in soft cries. i watch it circle us, the heather grabbing at me under my skirt. Ilya mumbles something along the lines of, "when this world drowns, the flies will still find my bowels and my heart." i can't hear him exactly, as he continues to mumble, his nose crinkling as the wind fills his lungs for him, causing his facial muscles to contort in almost a child-like expression, like for a moment he's back in a womb, not having to move his lips and lungs on his own.

"even the angels force me to breathe under this unbearable terror."
he chuckles as he struggles to force out a breath through the wind.

my house. imposing and swollen, placed almost as a tomb out in the middle of a field, far away from the rode. in the dark morning light, the porch lights on. the stars in the deep blue sky still shine, over my house. its decaying body emanating the smell of a hundred thousand bodies all being eaten by the earth. frankincense, myrrh, a hundred million jasmine flowers. the smell of drool rolling down your lips and chin as you try and hold pearls around your mouth and under your tongue, spitting them out, or swallowing. lipstick. soiled cotton. cashmere. animal piss. clawing your way out of a bathtub full of pee and semen.

the porch wraps around the entire front of the house, having to enter from the left side and walk around the house just to get to the door. the porch is covered in hundreds of old items, dollhouses, clothes, glass bottles, chairs, furniture, food, dogcrates, chains, fence gates, soap. i open the door, at least ten locks all broken and hanging flaccidly from the pulsing wood. Ilya holds the door open as the peeling paint falls from his fingertips. we go inside, and i tug his shirt, leading him to the back porch. it's a closed off room, screen windows rusted and peeling, maggots popping under our feet from the food offerings i had left at the porch door.

i never grew out of calling him daddy. i never grew out of calling him anything. i never grew out of wishing he would get lost and snowblind, and stumble somewhere far away, where the earth could never eat him back, where he'd just vanish into nothing. if you were staring at him, he'd just suddenly be gone from the horizon. not that i could ever look him in the face. i wish he'd tear me open, i wish he'd desecrate me, pop open my stitches, pull out all the decomposed dead parts of me, all the little girls i was, and i wish he'd just burst my organs, pop them like little lambs under the shepherd's virility.

his fettering presence, in that back porch. i point. Ilya looks through the screen window.
the morning star barely illuminates through the sunken swollen mass creeping up and around the walls and floorboards. he does not pulsate, nor does he twitch. no movement comes from the room, as if he is carved from stone. his body, spreading fuzzy members, hooks, anointing the back porch wood in mold and decay. in that armchair, his body, mutilated and exploded, dripping and skin sliding and slipping down its frame. his skeletal system, writhed and groaned like white hot pipes. his organs and muscles, pouting on his bones, grinding and twisting up into some horrible edifice, his shoulder blades had pimpled and cracked, like a great overhead stone arch. his spine held his body up like a mobile over a crib, his face incomprehensible in the splattered and torn tissue.

"i lay under him, sometimes" i whisper, my voicebox making no noise, and Ilya has to tear his eyes away to read my lips. he shakes his head, his brow furrowed and creased. his eyes become overcast, his eyelids heavy. the rain and snow outside begin to beat at the house, which moans like a child in pain.
my daddy's shovel lays at what used to be his feet. its the only thing i look at in the room.

"lay under what?" Ilya asks, his voice accompanied by the muscles in his sides shuddering up, as he grasps the back of my head, and holds me tight, like i'll sprint off like a lamb, kicking my feet out from under me at any second.
i waddle back through the house, turning away from the back porch. Ilya tears his eyes away to follow me. i tug his shirt, taking off my shoes and my worn socks making cold spots on my soles. in the kitchen, i feed Ilya a slice of ginger, and hot milk, rice, and brown sugar i heat up under a lighter. he drinks it heartily, white droplets collecting on his chin and falling to my feet on my socks. anointing me. i tug him towards my room, up the stairs that weep with each step. my hand trails up the banister, wobbling. Ilya strokes my hair as i bring him up to my room, to my small bed, white paint peeling off the door. i tug his hands, grasping at his fingers, pulling him to the mattress. i get on my hands and knees and crawl on my hands and knees into my bed. Ilya follows, curling his large body around mine, his spine and muscles bristling and turning taut in the cold. i feel his teeth and lips sink into the back of my neck, as if to check my pulse, as if to keep a hold of me. the small nightlight in the corner of my room, warm, a depiction of a girl in a bow and veil looking up with praying hands, holding the morning star.

in the cold, my body trembles, desperately, my face pushing into the sheets. Ilya holds me tighter. stillness falls over us, as the cold of the morning seems to suffocate the house, strangling deep creaks and groans.
the lights of the military base at the bottom of the mountain call and sing to us in the darkness of morning. i taste nothing in my mouth. my tomb of sorrow swaddles me, in the empty pew deep inside of me. in three days, i'll crawl out.