HYMN OF VIOLENCE.

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I find the slivers of my limbs beneath the ruins of this charnel house—those all are bruised and fractured, even my nails are not intact anymore, even your warmth does not remain anymore. It is where I once knelt on its shrine, repeated your hallowed name as if faltering memories of your bloodless relics are all that left. I pleaded for what could have been, I sobbed for what should have been, I stabbed myself with what will not be, I am haunted by what I cannot save. You held my rage before you perished. And I did not even grasp your soul even when you still breathed. Patroclus, your blood still drips on these palms of mine—it is our clots merged; it is where our love once outgrew my heart. Scar me red. Disflesh the sorrow out of my bloodstream. Heroes would never meet their lights, and here mine dimmed out of my violence. Patroclus, would you still pray for me? Though your grave blinded you, though I am here mourning over your soil, though we knit our lips, and though no sacred haven could save. Can I still pray for you?
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