Seven Swords, Piercing
rating: +17+x



The Seven of Swords

Portrait by the incredibly talented syuzhetsyuzhet

Being caught in the act of doing something you shouldn't is the wine of guilt release. The longer you've been doing it, the worst it feels. And, much like wine, too much guilt can cause the tables to turn. You aren't the one consuming it, it's what's consuming you.


Sleep deprivation's something fierce.
I often find myself wandering
Through the empty spaces of my home,
Quiet as the grave, and twice as cold.
You left this place a crypt to my sin
And my specter haunts it alone.

It's maddening, what the mind conjures
To fill the unstimulating space around you.
Phantom noise, corner-view figures
And its own thoughts, magnified by
The echoing of the silence through me.
Look what I've done, see what I've lost
I deserve every bit of this,
Don't I?

The sound of voices outside my window
Every car rolling on by in the dead of night
I think could be you, all of you.
But it never is.
So I remain in my cell, away from
The world, for fear of admonition.
But it comes, regardless,
And it's something like this.

It's always dark, with the blinds closed
The gloom, the world provided for my mind
The cold exacerbates itself as I lay
Sprawled across the tile floor, eyes to the sky
As a faint glint descends, despite any obstacle
In its path. Sharpened points giving way into
An incandescent glow, almost blinding,
Emanating from steel that was never there.

Sinking towards me like stones thrown
Into a still sea, pointed toward my chest.
I want to move, but I can't.
I want to blink, but I can't.
I want this to end
But it won't.
They sink, further, further, further
Into my flesh.

It burns.
They carve, weaving a dance through my skin
Peeling back the layers like a parcel
Taking slices out of me like a stale cake.
I'd love to scream, but they've cut out my throat,
Tracing my neck, up towards my brain.
Following my veins like a map of the self.
Everything burn, a thousand nerves exploding
Like fireworks in phantom agony.

I shoot up, straight as a rod
Hands moving to my neck, half-expecting
To be met with the sticky sensation of my own blood
Only to find my cold, cold skin.
I wheeze, in half-terror half-relief
And sink back to the ground, amid the mess
You left, that I haven't quite brought myself
To clean, and recompose my thoughts.

I know it's not normal, these half-waking dreams
But I'm at a loss as to why.
Perhaps the isolation's getting to me.
Perhaps it's the masochistic conjuration of a guilty mind
Intent on torturing itself for what it's done.
What I've done to deserve this,
What I did to drive you all away
Driving those knives into your backs, in a single moment.

I've never been one for superstition,
But maybe it's a sign.
Some portent sent by something greater
To let me know of what's coming to me.
A great zweihander a knife, distorted in the hand of a god
And I won't see it coming when it does.
Maybe it should be like that. Maybe I deserve it.
But do I really want to die?

I don't think I do, no.

I started to worry, every edge
Every corner a dagger in the dark,
A hammer to crack my skull, every
Doorhandle a loaded gun aimed at me.
Unreason dominates my every move
Illogic overpowers every decision
Guilt's strong, fear's more potent
To a mind that's not doing much else.

Something about the loneliness gets to you
When you've become too caught up in yourself
To leave the house. Things just stop working right
In your day-to-day, night-to-night, and you take
It all as you see it. The shadows begin to creep up
On you, like assassins in the game I played with life.

The tricks my mind play come and go,
Rarely as bad as the waking dream.
My toothbrush, a steak-knife here, the food
I eat, a mass of scalpels there. Blink, and
I miss it, gone more as it truly is. I can feel
Myself losing it, and I think I feel fine.
It's not a spiral, it's something else
A plummet, hitting branches on the way down.

Maybe I should leave sometime, feel the sun
On my skin again, proper. Feel the fresh air inside
My lungs, see the world I've abandoned for now.
Maybe the sun will smile on me, unjudging in its
Warm embrace. Or perhaps I'll be immolated,
Reduced to cinders by the sky's heart.
The heavens are wont to impenetrability and I
Dare not tempt them with an optimistic stroll.

So inside I shall stay, locked away from the world
Where I can't hurt anyone, can't fall for anyone
Can't ruin it for anyone else. Alone in my bed,
Alone in my head. Life on the crime scene isn't
So bad, when nobody's coming to investigate.
Maybe one day you'll be back, and we can mend
What I broke. This home, your heart, what we had
Together, for all those years when you never knew.

So for now, solitude. I'm not ready to
Forgive myself just yet. The days go on
And the nights draw in, the knives draw in.
It's hard to open up to yourself, to be honest,
To find the root of a problem and yank it out.
But one day, the knives will get deep enough
And I'll wake to find that they've finally carved out
My heart, to lay all I am bare before myself.

The root of all my evils
So I can see just what exactly
Is making me tick.

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