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