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Description

I thought I saw the devil, this morning
Looking in the mirror, drop of rum on my tongue
With the warning to help me see myself clearer
I never meant to start a fire,
I never meant to make you bleed,
I'll be a better man today

My name is Page. I am a storyteller. Some prefer to call me a liar. Maybe I am, I don’t know, I’ve told so many different versions of my life to others and to myself that I can no longer track which parts of it are real, and which parts of it were just stories I made up. Just fronts I invented when armor alone wasn’t enough to defend myself.

My name is Samiel. I am a killer. In the sacred hours of night, silence scares me more than the shrill sound of disagreement that constantly rings in my ears, because it means that the ghosts that usually follow me have gone quiet. As if they are growing more intelligent, becoming capable of more than just haunting me with their usual apparitions. I do not like to imagine that my ghosts will one day outsmart me and run me down.

My name is Bird. I am a thief. This is the only truth I can be certain of. It is the only pillar still standing in the crumbling temple that is my sense of self. My impulsivity is a demon, possessing me to abandon all rationale and to steal and kill and fuck without reason. Every time I loot some sort of treasure from the city, from my friends, from myself, there is a rush of euphoria at first, then a sinking guilt that imprisons me more effectively than any manmade cage ever could. I despise myself, but that is a secret, a fatal weakness, that I prefer to keep to myself.

My name is Skip. My name is Iakopa. My name is Ian. I am every bit a ghost as the spirits that cling to my pelt no matter where I run to. There are moments, when I find myself completely alone in the forest, that I feel as if I’m not there at all. As if I only exist as far as the static feeling that courses through my muscles does. And the only way to keep myself anchored to the physical world is to dunk myself into the icy river, the sudden cold biting into my skin and leaving me gasping and shaking, but at least present.

My name is Daniel. I am a fucking coward. I am the prime example of I’m sorry I didn’t try hard enough stories and I swear I’ll do better next time apologies. It is my talent to spin out promises as fast as thread, but to never weave them into something tangible, something I can keep. If you’re smart, don’t trust your most beloved with me. I will corrupt her, teaching her the ways of thieves and murderers and swindlers, and then I will leave her, as I had left her mother, in a foreign land full of foreign cats. She will have to learn to fend for herself, because her father lacked the courage or resolve to stay.

My name is Accius. I am a failed lover. When every other husband is the one willing to lay down their life for their family, I am the one who cowers behind my wife, too quick to flee at the outbreak of conflict and too slow to come to the defense of those I truly love. There are no excuses for my countless acts of wickedness and abandonment, but perhaps it will help you dream of sweeter things tonight to know that the regret I feel, gouging into my chest every day since the night I left you, is a fate a million times worse than death.

I thought you had died. Surely, you would have perished in the flood that night. To this day, my paw pads are still mangled from the endless hours I spent digging furiously but futilely into the wall of boulders that kept you trapped in our flooded home. You must have heard our daughter and I screaming your name, praying to every Roman god we knew of that you will still be alive. But by the third day, there was no way, I thought, that you could have survived. And I could not find it within me to dig up your body for our daughter to see, even if it meant robbing you of a proper funeral.

Except that’s just another story of mine, starring a fabricated version of myself where I play the hero of the tale, whose pathos can win over the tears of the calloused and sympathy of the cold. In truth, I gave up too easily the conviction to rescue you, because that’s what I do best. I took our daughter and fled because that’s what I do best. And I abandoned her in a forest far from ours because that’s what I do best. And from a safe distance I watched as life beat you down, but never once managed to spring to your aid, because that’s what I do best.

Because at best I am just a smokescreen of who I’m meant to be, and at worst I am the storyteller that won you over, the thief that stole your heart, the lover that broke all his promises, the killer that murdered your kindness, the coward that left you for dead, and the ghost who has come back to haunt you.

But I know that this time, you will want me gone, because I have used up the last ounce of your forgiveness and the world has taught you how to survive. Let me bury this grief first. Let me let you take out your rage on me, and tear through my bones with all the heartbreak and suffering you must have endured all these years because of me. Let justice be served. Let me repent and try to make right everything I’ve ever ruined, because I’m sick of being Midas with a cursed touch.

Then, and only then, will I, along with all my wonderful, shiny, wicked selves, be able to disappear.

My past has tasted bitter for years now,
So I wield an iron fist
Grace is just weakness
Or so I've been told.
I've been cold, I've been merciless
But the blood on my hands scares me to death
Maybe I'm waking up today

Description

I thought I saw the devil, this morning
Looking in the mirror, drop of rum on my tongue
With the warning to help me see myself clearer
I never meant to start a fire,
I never meant to make you bleed,
I'll be a better man today

My name is Page. I am a storyteller. Some prefer to call me a liar. Maybe I am, I don’t know, I’ve told so many different versions of my life to others and to myself that I can no longer track which parts of it are real, and which parts of it were just stories I made up. Just fronts I invented when armor alone wasn’t enough to defend myself.

My name is Samiel. I am a killer. In the sacred hours of night, silence scares me more than the shrill sound of disagreement that constantly rings in my ears, because it means that the ghosts that usually follow me have gone quiet. As if they are growing more intelligent, becoming capable of more than just haunting me with their usual apparitions. I do not like to imagine that my ghosts will one day outsmart me and run me down.

My name is Bird. I am a thief. This is the only truth I can be certain of. It is the only pillar still standing in the crumbling temple that is my sense of self. My impulsivity is a demon, possessing me to abandon all rationale and to steal and kill and fuck without reason. Every time I loot some sort of treasure from the city, from my friends, from myself, there is a rush of euphoria at first, then a sinking guilt that imprisons me more effectively than any manmade cage ever could. I despise myself, but that is a secret, a fatal weakness, that I prefer to keep to myself.

My name is Skip. My name is Iakopa. My name is Ian. I am every bit a ghost as the spirits that cling to my pelt no matter where I run to. There are moments, when I find myself completely alone in the forest, that I feel as if I’m not there at all. As if I only exist as far as the static feeling that courses through my muscles does. And the only way to keep myself anchored to the physical world is to dunk myself into the icy river, the sudden cold biting into my skin and leaving me gasping and shaking, but at least present.

My name is Daniel. I am a fucking coward. I am the prime example of I’m sorry I didn’t try hard enough stories and I swear I’ll do better next time apologies. It is my talent to spin out promises as fast as thread, but to never weave them into something tangible, something I can keep. If you’re smart, don’t trust your most beloved with me. I will corrupt her, teaching her the ways of thieves and murderers and swindlers, and then I will leave her, as I had left her mother, in a foreign land full of foreign cats. She will have to learn to fend for herself, because her father lacked the courage or resolve to stay.

My name is Accius. I am a failed lover. When every other husband is the one willing to lay down their life for their family, I am the one who cowers behind my wife, too quick to flee at the outbreak of conflict and too slow to come to the defense of those I truly love. There are no excuses for my countless acts of wickedness and abandonment, but perhaps it will help you dream of sweeter things tonight to know that the regret I feel, gouging into my chest every day since the night I left you, is a fate a million times worse than death.

I thought you had died. Surely, you would have perished in the flood that night. To this day, my paw pads are still mangled from the endless hours I spent digging furiously but futilely into the wall of boulders that kept you trapped in our flooded home. You must have heard our daughter and I screaming your name, praying to every Roman god we knew of that you will still be alive. But by the third day, there was no way, I thought, that you could have survived. And I could not find it within me to dig up your body for our daughter to see, even if it meant robbing you of a proper funeral.

Except that’s just another story of mine, starring a fabricated version of myself where I play the hero of the tale, whose pathos can win over the tears of the calloused and sympathy of the cold. In truth, I gave up too easily the conviction to rescue you, because that’s what I do best. I took our daughter and fled because that’s what I do best. And I abandoned her in a forest far from ours because that’s what I do best. And from a safe distance I watched as life beat you down, but never once managed to spring to your aid, because that’s what I do best.

Because at best I am just a smokescreen of who I’m meant to be, and at worst I am the storyteller that won you over, the thief that stole your heart, the lover that broke all his promises, the killer that murdered your kindness, the coward that left you for dead, and the ghost who has come back to haunt you.

But I know that this time, you will want me gone, because I have used up the last ounce of your forgiveness and the world has taught you how to survive. Let me bury this grief first. Let me let you take out your rage on me, and tear through my bones with all the heartbreak and suffering you must have endured all these years because of me. Let justice be served. Let me repent and try to make right everything I’ve ever ruined, because I’m sick of being Midas with a cursed touch.

Then, and only then, will I, along with all my wonderful, shiny, wicked selves, be able to disappear.

My past has tasted bitter for years now,
So I wield an iron fist
Grace is just weakness
Or so I've been told.
I've been cold, I've been merciless
But the blood on my hands scares me to death
Maybe I'm waking up today