opprobrium

i'm tired of caring. you, your consecrated archways, your

story-spinning whirligigs, the way you papier-mache together

cleavage and moustachioed bravado until someone ⁠—

anyone ⁠— puts the sword through the magician's coffin. i'm

tired of poisons and poultices and precipices. i'm tired of

unnecessary hand-wringing and necessary interventions.

i'm tired of swinging at shadows you've conjured up,

puppet-master around a cauldron of sins and puppy-dog

tails. the trail of broken hearts you've left in your wake

is a miracle in itself, you stepping lightfooted across the

watery roil of souls more cursed than yours, or perhaps

just less clever. i don't even think you're clever, just smart.

you know the difference. that tongue-twisting finger-licking

catastrophizing echelon, riding back through the portcullis

after victory in distant lands, that's what you want, isn't it?

i'm tired of caring. i'm tired of polishing your saddle and

saving the baby's breath that crumples in your hoofprints.

let me take my gilded scissors to the heart of your tangled

wood and cut your hair while you sleep. it doesn't matter.

Kī Anthony is 148 centimetres of jasmine garlands and ivory keys and furballs and cascading style sheets. To their best knowledge, they are present.