the haematoma in your heart: chantale

[chantale]

my corrupt nature is empty of grace; bent unto sin, and only unto sin; and that continually. They never told you any fairy tales. Only lies, that your only life choice was to go with him, be filled with his babies, be the demure, quiet child. A good little slave-girl herd mare. They pretend you are not different – at first, of course. Later, when you are bloodstained, a widow (a black widow, ha-ha, you ate him up), they huff and tell each other how you were always so different and strange and difficult. As if they never touched you. As if you were hell for them. You weren’t, though. Strange, yes, warped, yes, but you tried those first few years, you went with him, didn’t you? You let him upon you, you bore that baby for him (never mind that it died and they accused you of murder, you bore that cancer-child, didn’t you?). It wasn’t until her that you because difficult. It wasn’t until murder that you became hopeless. She says your name like a prayer, like something cherished. It’s nice, to have them so devout, to carve your name on their bloody lips. My corpse masterpiece meets her eyes, feeds upon the rapture and obsession there as readily as she feasts upon the chambers and valves of the wayfarer’s heart. “Nykeln,” she coos, finished with the meal, stomach leaden at the flesh. She skulks forward with her usual graceless gait, strokes the dark mare’s neck with her bloodied muzzles. She leaves streaks there, dark promises of crimson against the stygian canvas of her pet, her servant. But my corpse masterpiece does not know what to do with puppets. She uses them, lets them entertain her for moments until they glimpse behind the curtain, behold the shrieking, gibbering monster of madness that’s nested in her eyes. Then they leave, and she moves on, finds another warm curve of flesh to press against, trying to stay warm. Of course there was also a desert girl, a queen of saffron and spices, and she had loved her – perhaps – but that mare was gone from my corpse queen. She does not love this girl as she did the desert one, though she takes pleasure in the flesh (both the warm living flesh of Nykeln and the dead organ thrown at her feet). She is a dead goddess unsure what to do with her worshippers. “Tell me how it felt,” she says in her lacquered tone, pressed to her, “tell me what they said before they died. How they looked.” chantale how original a sin.