when he sees her first
he tastes the acid in his throat.
it burns hot when she tells him her name.
he tries it once, twice,
five more times,
memorised on his tongue.

she sees him once as a leader and a guardian.
she sees him again as a humble man.
and finally she sees him as a man of anger,
of rage,
and great beauty
pouring blood red between his teeth.

throwback to when they first met,
now with their fingers entwined.
neither are angels although they are guardians,
captivated by each other's beauty.
individual angers, individual loves gleam
molten gold in their eyes.

i feel it. nausea.
i feel it when i think of you;
i feel it when i think of them,
and what once was and could have been,
and how i let it slip through
my fingers,

cascading gently, gracefully and clumsily
past my cellulite flesh,
forming a deep pool,
for you all to splash about,
while i stay gripped,
by nausea.

it is my own fault -- this nausea
-- for i let it fester and fuel me with
anger and hate, bubbling and boiling
in my chest, but i watched.
i let it happen.
i let the nausea in.

nausea is my name.
it is the feeling of a cry i have been
choking on for what feels like 20 years,
20 years i have not lived but
have instead been gripped
by nausea.

they talk of a place where god exists,
a place where angels die but god exists,
a place where devils thrive but god exists,
a place for men to lie and lay but god exists.

they talk of a place where man dies,
a place where animals cry but man dies,
a place where the sky sings but man dies,
a place for a flower to open but man dies.

they talk of a place where man and god are one.
they talk of a place where man is one.
god is something else, they said.
there are places for man. and places for him. they said.

they talk of a place where angels scream,
and where devils laugh, the angels scream,
and the dirt fills your ears but you hear god exist,
and you feel man die, but god exists.

you,
with salt water in your lungs and fire in your palms,
stay calm.
you,
mother of great rage and captor of men’s pride,
stay humble.
you,
carrying your father’s weariness and the seven realms on your shoulders,
stay strong.
you*,
sacrifice yourself every night and cry to No God in the sky, only a star behind the clouds,
stay content.

i hate the gritting of my
teeth and the swelling of my
tongue and the beating of my
heart.

there is something tasteless
on the tip of my tongue
and as I bid it to stay still
you spill.
a broken dam.
I tried with all nerves
only for you to sit on them
tuning them to your song
to suit your voice.
puppet strings.
and hate is a strong word
feeling
which is the only thing I know
it seems.