Anabela Machado

Violent Devotion

I.

The word of love is a mystery that sneaks up on most. Worship can be better understood. I found you when hope had died ugly, trembling with fear. We struggled for what felt like an eternity, trying to decide who would win. It was a very terrible thing, and I regret ever calling it affection, the blood that dripped from our wounds tasted bitter. I want to be kind, sweet, harmless. I want to put this rage away, inside a book of fairy tales no one reads anymore. I want to strip this of all the horror we cultivated, dress it up like a thing of beauty. It’s no use, it’s deformed, a fruit of gore, rotten. 

I think about all the things I told you, the lies I built like a castle, with faulty structure, just waiting for the right time to come down. I remember biology class, my high school self struggling to stay still, a story of spiders on the whiteboard. Their cannibalism was a tale of terror, detached, no emotions involved. It’s not how we work, strange humans filled to the brim with feelings.

I cry as I eat you.

II.

I want to try on your skin, pull it out slowly like a sticker from a beloved notebook. Wear it like a form fitting jumpsuit, glue it to myself so you can’t have it back. Move with your arms and your legs, speak with your mouth, summoned words going up from the skin of your throat, your neck but my will. It would be fun, I promise. You’ll be nothing but exposed red muscles, veins throughout your body, a living and breathing science book image. But I’ll take care of you like that. I’ll put you inside a box, closed tight so no one can see you, I’ll give you food everyday through an opening on the wood, you’ll be warm and cozy while I walk around.

I’ll tear your life to pieces, self destructive and unkind. Your job will be nothing but a distant memory, all the love in your life left traumatized. I’ll use all your knives until they are blunt, cutting chunks of your plans, eating them raw. Is this how we end? My eyes watching through your eyelids? I’ve learned the way you move, your tics and repetitions, the rise and fall of your voice, the tone you use when you want something. I’ve practiced, every night. Twisting my sounds to become yours. I move my hands while I talk too, I make the same jokes you do. This is a form of admiration, I hope you are flattered. You are a debt that is owed, and I’m the collector. I take you with greed, anxious, wanting. 

I dislike you just as much as I desire you, with all of me.

I write you in my memories, the main character in a film, the world revolving around you, the universe bending to your will. I feel like Bluebeard, keeping you locked inside, my puppet, my prey. I like it, I play the part well. I hang the people you love from the ceiling with joy, imagining your face when you see your life cut in two. I picture you in their place, hungry and lonely, malleable, clay ready to be molded into something else. 

You’ll cry of course, feeling trapped in the warmth I wrapped around you, it’s how it always goes. But I’m not moved by tears, never have been. I just watch your hope go, running away while your body stays.

III.

I’m the monstrous fisherman that captures the mermaid, unwilling to give up my possessions. I wrap you in my net, mouth watering with greed, dissect you like a fish, bleeding on the wood of my boat. Isn’t it funny, how I don’t hesitate? I’d do it again, just for you. 

I take stock of you, like cattle. Count all your fingers and your toes, think about which one I’ll cut first. It horrifies you, of course. But this is a return to nature. I kill you as I love you, make you my favorite meal. I scoop out your insides and turn your corpse into a home, your flesh my roof. 

I must be the one to do this.

You could never stomach me.