when he says your name you swear it's like nothing you've ever heard before
you taste his on your lips before you realise that you know it
and you feel the metallic taste of iron and blood mixing together
pooling underneath your ribcage
as the others call you a soldier
(but since when has killing for nothing meant the same thing
as fighting for something)
clarity is not in your vocabulary
neither is love
or hope
but you feel them threading through your veins like they were always there
you've forgotten how it feels to remember
your life is a series of ones and zeros but he
he is more than you will ever know
you're not sure why he loves you
{ you are ice and metal and a **** streak
over two dozen assassinations in the past fifty years }
but he swears,
words pressed into the small of your back,
that he does
and you believe him
you're not sure when it was the last time you felt something other than
the electricity or the thawing ice
(his hand in yours brings tears to your eyes
you don't really know why)
you sometimes wonder how he does it
how he loves you
how he can stand to see you every morning
one night, you ask him
and he tells you, quiet, that it helps make up for all the mornings
he woke up without you
(you're pretty sure you're dreaming, but when your hand finds his
it feels real)
you still feel the heartbeats of the targets
you still see them when you go to sleep
the tick marks have become a part of you and they are
inked into your skin like they belong there
they pulled out your lungs while you were still breathing
electric hands scooping you hollow
but he would carve out his own to give them to you
if he had the chance
and you aren't really sure if that scares you or not
when you wake up, screams bleeding from your teeth,
sweat dripping down your back
he whispers memories into your fingertips
and somehow
everything seems like it could be okay
i keep writing poems about gay brainwashed russian assassins and their gay superhero boyfriends