Illustrations

Niku Daruma's Bandcamp

Rebreather's Website

The sun is beating down on my face—the bitter taste of sweat rolls across my lips and into my mouth. I usually hold much disdain for hot days. Today is different. My armor glistens in an orange-ish hue that reminds me of lanterns carried in the night. Lanterns that look like faeries guiding the lonesome. I took off my gloves so I could intertwine with the wild grass that surrounds me. A dull pain is striking my chest, but it is quickly soothed with a sweet-smelling late-afternoon wind. It reminds me of all the time I spent with family and friends behind my cottage, trying to count all the rolling hills that lay out before us. I can’t make out any of their faces at the moment. All I can recall is the tightness in my throat and the wetness of my eyes when enjoying their laughter.

When I was younger, I thought the fear might wane as I aged. Just as the moon, waxing is always around the corner. I fear that my love has gone unfounded and that I wasted tears over the trivial. I fear that once I die, the passion will too. In death, will I no longer be me? Will I no longer taste or feel? I fear that I will still have love left to give once I come to rest. I had always hoped that I wouldn’t die alone in the cold embrace of the perpetual night. Will the night listen to my last words and dare to remember them? I am afraid I won’t recognize the face that reflects on the sickle that guides me away.

The cicadas sing for me in the distance. It reminds me that there is always a morning that succeeds the fog of night. I have lost myself in that same fog many times. Suspended in the limbo of night and day, my foes had lain before my feet—blood christening the soil of a land all but new to me. I did not want to strike them with my blade. Every swing was paired with a sob that dared to erupt from my chest. These men enacted a foray on me so vile that I fraught I may never know silence. I have tasted my own blood, and it was not sweet. This has always made me dwell on the reason why they would so gravely want to steal each drop from my vessel. Warring against a violence that I could never understand made me put on the armor. I had to become a knight of my own flesh.

Today, I lie in this field without my sword. The one I have sheathed on my hip is unfamiliar. The leather of the hilt feels alien against my touch. The steel is a razor, thirsty for penance. This blade was one I was never meant to wield. As I reveal its glimmer to the sunlight, it proves to be untarnished. This instrument of violence had once been pledged to sacred devotion. Its oath was a whisper in my ear and a kiss on my neck. This covenant came to me at my most fatigued.

Niku Daruma's Bandcamp

Rebreather's Website

The sun is beating down on my face—the bitter taste of sweat rolls across my lips and into my mouth. I usually hold much disdain for hot days. Today is different. My armor glistens in an orange-ish hue that reminds me of lanterns carried in the night. Lanterns that look like faeries guiding the lonesome. I took off my gloves so I could intertwine with the wild grass that surrounds me. A dull pain is striking my chest, but it is quickly soothed with a sweet-smelling late-afternoon wind. It reminds me of all the time I spent with family and friends behind my cottage, trying to count all the rolling hills that lay out before us. I can’t make out any of their faces at the moment. All I can recall is the tightness in my throat and the wetness of my eyes when enjoying their laughter.

When I was younger, I thought the fear might wane as I aged. Just as the moon, waxing is always around the corner. I fear that my love has gone unfounded and that I wasted tears over the trivial. I fear that once I die, the passion will too. In death, will I no longer be me? Will I no longer taste or feel? I fear that I will still have love left to give once I come to rest. I had always hoped that I wouldn’t die alone in the cold embrace of the perpetual night. Will the night listen to my last words and dare to remember them? I am afraid I won’t recognize the face that reflects on the sickle that guides me away.

The cicadas sing for me in the distance. It reminds me that there is always a morning that succeeds the fog of night. I have lost myself in that same fog many times. Suspended in the limbo of night and day, my foes had lain before my feet—blood christening the soil of a land all but new to me. I did not want to strike them with my blade. Every swing was paired with a sob that dared to erupt from my chest. These men enacted a foray on me so vile that I fraught I may never know silence. I have tasted my own blood, and it was not sweet. This has always made me dwell on the reason why they would so gravely want to steal each drop from my vessel. Warring against a violence that I could never understand made me put on the armor. I had to become a knight of my own flesh.

Today, I lie in this field without my sword. The one I have sheathed on my hip is unfamiliar. The leather of the hilt feels alien against my touch. The steel is a razor, thirsty for penance. This blade was one I was never meant to wield. As I reveal its glimmer to the sunlight, it proves to be untarnished. This instrument of violence had once been pledged to sacred devotion. Its oath was a whisper in my ear and a kiss on my neck. This covenant came to me at my most fatigued.

Niku Daruma's Bandcamp

Rebreather's Website

The sun is beating down on my face—the bitter taste of sweat rolls across my lips and into my mouth. I usually hold much disdain for hot days. Today is different. My armor glistens in an orange-ish hue that reminds me of lanterns carried in the night. Lanterns that look like faeries guiding the lonesome. I took off my gloves so I could intertwine with the wild grass that surrounds me. A dull pain is striking my chest, but it is quickly soothed with a sweet-smelling late-afternoon wind. It reminds me of all the time I spent with family and friends behind my cottage, trying to count all the rolling hills that lay out before us. I can’t make out any of their faces at the moment. All I can recall is the tightness in my throat and the wetness of my eyes when enjoying their laughter.

When I was younger, I thought the fear might wane as I aged. Just as the moon, waxing is always around the corner. I fear that my love has gone unfounded and that I wasted tears over the trivial. I fear that once I die, the passion will too. In death, will I no longer be me? Will I no longer taste or feel? I fear that I will still have love left to give once I come to rest. I had always hoped that I wouldn’t die alone in the cold embrace of the perpetual night. Will the night listen to my last words and dare to remember them? I am afraid I won’t recognize the face that reflects on the sickle that guides me away.

The cicadas sing for me in the distance. It reminds me that there is always a morning that succeeds the fog of night. I have lost myself in that same fog many times. Suspended in the limbo of night and day, my foes had lain before my feet—blood christening the soil of a land all but new to me. I did not want to strike them with my blade. Every swing was paired with a sob that dared to erupt from my chest. These men enacted a foray on me so vile that I fraught I may never know silence. I have tasted my own blood, and it was not sweet. This has always made me dwell on the reason why they would so gravely want to steal each drop from my vessel. Warring against a violence that I could never understand made me put on the armor. I had to become a knight of my own flesh.

Today, I lie in this field without my sword. The one I have sheathed on my hip is unfamiliar. The leather of the hilt feels alien against my touch. The steel is a razor, thirsty for penance. This blade was one I was never meant to wield. As I reveal its glimmer to the sunlight, it proves to be untarnished. This instrument of violence had once been pledged to sacred devotion. Its oath was a whisper in my ear and a kiss on my neck. This covenant came to me at my most fatigued.