A Letter To a Holy Woman, from the Devil of a Man She Was Meant To Be With:
Where are you?
Oh, my dear. You were never the stain they had you pinned as. You were the hands around my waist, the one who kept me from stretching my arms out too far… who kept me from chasing sins that would never vanish. I sit here now, chasing nothing but the memory of you. You are embedded into the fibers of my worn out skin; the salt of your tears clumped between my eyelashes; your blood heavy on my fingertips. And I can never remove this mark I’ve made on the white linen of your purity, a splotch of crimson between bounds of naivety to what the angels are capable of. I knew I never stood a chance. You thought I had this war gripped by the throat. You made it seem as if I was the light to lead soldiers to safety, not the one they saw when drops of blood adorned their skin like summer rain. If I could strangle the prophets into thousands of pieces for you, my dear, I would. After all, I was the type of rough that they could understand. You, the type of delicate they could never quite grasp.
Do you remember what it was like before I made my choice?
I wonder if it would have ended differently; maybe if I had stayed buried between the crevices of your body. Growing old and plain with you was a whim I should’ve executed. You were the promise of a time not wasted. My dear, how you burn into the heels of my feet and the back of my head. If I hadn’t bargained my life for my pride, would your heart still be beating against me? If I could, I would go back in time and stay buried in your skin, as brown as the Earth I now lay underneath…
My dear, when will you come back?
I breathed in this underworld and felt it’s darkness crawl down into the edges of my lungs. You were supposed to be here, waiting for me. This heart is still half human, it revels in its lack of power before you. My beloved, I cannot beg your forgiveness if you are not here to kneel in front of. I call to you, I call to the saints, I call to God and pound my fists against the skulls of lost warriors. This is not the ending that flashed before my eyes when my soul was ripped from my chest.
Why haven’t I been given a chance to have you molded back into my side?
My dear, my beloved, I promise to stop outrunning you. I’d give up these devilish tendencies to have you eating berries with me again, to feel your eyes on me as I lay at your feet, to wrap each other in the winter cold of that cave in the forest. The world within your arms, always ardent; a shot into the void of this darkness; the feel of God’s heart resting between my canines. I know I was not always good, but believe me when I say I have not once told you a lie. I’m begging you my dear, to look past the path I took.
My healer, can you fix this wreckage that I’ve caused?
Nimble hands are never praised like those which are calloused. I only wish heartbreak were as easy to fix as slashed wrists. I only wish the angels would take pity on two lost lovers. How bored they must be of these tales with reckless plots: of men approaching love head first, obsession prone, sticking the rose’s thorn into their sides instead of plucking off its petals.
Have you forgiven me?
My beloved, if Helen was the face to launch a thousand ships, then you are the rush of waves that has thrown me overboard.
Will I ever forgive myself?
My dear, please fall under with me. My heart is at war and I cannot win this one alone.
— Your heart…