We and us, as gods of ink,
with stars snatched in fists made of paper and power,
Then, almost dutifully, we will eat the smoke
from worlds on fire with theories
of who we should’ve been.
And all the while, we will watch
as our names are pressed into
thick, gilded, holy pages,
like old flowers meant for sacrifice–
as if those frozen, broken stories
could possibly smother our own.
Later, our lungs will grow heavy
with the sort of magic that creeps through dirt
in shades of red, and we’ll carry it all
like a curse.
It’s sure to rot through our pens in much
the same way that tar tears into teeth.
But still, we are gods, and our magic,
though rough and violent and shot through with poison,
is still magic.
In the end, every word our voices crash into
will rupture and erupt into gold,
no matter how monstrous we may have been
while they were still ticking in our throats.
Even our worlds, dressed as they are in war and steel
and kept spinning by virtue of the aches in our blood
will seem beautiful to those
listening beyond what they were taught to believe
about us broken things in the first place.
For it’s the cracks in our bones
they always seek when in need of places
And what are gods for,
if not to answer prayers?
R.S. Williams writes strange and provocative things, usually from multiple perspectives—human and otherwise. She has an increasingly codependent relationship with words and started writing them down as a way to get even closer to them. She loves them, they tolerate her—and they happily use each other like porn stars. You can read more of R.S.’ writing on Instagram and Facebook