A Visit from Pluto

Content warning: depression, suicidal ideation

What is love?

An old question, but a question nonetheless and I am a seeker of answers, restless in my galloping pursuit of the truth.

Everytime I ask it, I try something new.

Do I pour everything into myself or everything into you? Will it hold this time, be sustainable, or will I lose it again, my latest passion proven unretainable?

Try and fail but what is the consequence? When you give a part of yourself to know the unknowable, where do you get the energy to make sense of what you’ve done? How do you retrace your steps when in your hunger for knowledge, you consumed the bread crumbs leading you back to yourself?

My arrows are supposed to fly true but this time I’ve missed, too wrapped up in giving false promises to notice the scorpion that kissed my heel, in the same place as before, and when I let the arrow fly somehow I struck myself in the heart, which glowed red-hot as I pierced it with the very truth I sought.

The scorpion smiled, knowing it had done its job as emissary of the end. It transformed into a woman with short black hair and she smiled sweetly at me like a friend before twisting the arrow and watching me scream in agony.

When I looked down, I saw my arrow transformed into a scythe, glistening in the 4 am light of the night as my hot tears splashed irregularly across its pristine surface.

She wiped them gently, softly, and pulled me in tighter and even though it hurt I realized that I wasn’t bleeding.

Her hand felt familiar on my face. I opened my mouth to ask why, but she pulled me into an embrace and held me. I sobbed into her arms, not knowing what else to do.

And then, with a flick of the wrist, she removed her scythe from my body, like a band-aid torn from that which it would always miss, the wound which gave it purpose.

I expected pain but instead found clarity and when I looked up at her I saw the singularity that pulled me on my pursuit of love’s truth, the event horizon that transformed me into the seeker of death.

“I don’t really care if you cry,” she said and when she spoke her words had no rhythm, but in ‘em I heard the beginning of Lil Uzi’s rhymes.

I had learned the truth, but what I found was a ruthless mockery of what I hoped would finally soothe the ache in my soul.

I learned that love was not what I had aimed my bow toward.

As though it were a prophecy self-fulfilled but foretold, I borrowed too much time trying to figure out that which only brought me more ruin than my body could hold and that’s when I realized the price of what I had sold in seeking this.

I had called this woman before me to revolutionize my body and vanquish the destruction within so that hope could be reborn anew.

She lifted her scythe high, I looked her in the eye and told her “I am not afraid to die.”

And she swung silence down upon me.

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