[open] Fragile eggshell mind

[Pollock]

I called you to announce sadness falling like burned skin
I called you to wish you well, to glory in self like a new monster
And now I call you to pray

They lived in seething wildness;

Great, cold copulations under blood moons. Lips red and moist with the juice of overripe fruit; overrun lust. Sweat-slick, angry-tongue, wanting-flesh. Bruised loins, bitten hips, mouth-marked breasts, swollen and sore and satisfied, wholly. Wind-dreaded hair, mud-caked necks. Abandon ‒ with enlightenment so far in the past, that he has been rendered base. Base, beyond what the rank smear of blood ‒ ritual; break, make, bleed, baptize; again ‒ had accomplished for so many, many years. Lizard-brained and primal, like a man of caves and rocks and newly lit fire, with nothing but satiation on his mind. 
She completed him. She built, just as he had instructed. Jawlines and throats, together, apart; a jigsaw of skin and bone that fit together so perfectly. So brutally. So wildly.

(She made him forget:
‒ indigo;
‒ green;
‒ gold;
‒ lavender)

Earth-red and bone-white. That taste lingered on his tongue as they circled one another, as much like feral dogs as paramours; as they coupled and decoupled. As he held mastery over her, but only as long as she would allow it. That taste, which bloomed most vividly in his mouth when she left, slinking off into the shadows and leaving him bellowing and destructive; a monster made from the tattered rags of his being ‒ mother-things, contusions left by the souls laid bare and breathless by his hand and horn; the untenable grasp Sinew has over him, as he has over her.

(She always comes back.
She always comes back.
She will come back.

She will find him,) A wildness in his pit-black eyes that was not here before ‒ a parting from the stone-emptiness that always befalls a fat and contented man. For this monster is hungry, again. This monster is beset upon, on all sides, by the achingly hateful degeneracy of his mind, sundered completely from the outside world for so long. 
The sough of the winter echoes. Moans. 
(She moans for him! 
Of course she does… 
Welcome.)
His split hooves furrowing the golden leaves between stands of pine and pale, naked birch ‒ the invisible man ‒ a giver of great gifts, you see! ‒ passes back into Beqanna.


Pollock,
The gift-giver.