I want to be this man of steel she sees in me. But I am just flesh, just blood, just sinew, just bone. I want to be more.
My voice is shaky. My hands stutter. My heart is double- and triple-minded. My face is cracked. My eyes melt.
My words are arbitrary and violent. Feverish, they wander. They reel and rend and wreck. They lie. They want to be more.
What can I take for my pain? What can I take for hers?
I want to be this steel she sees in me. But I am a child like her. My child is my sister and, Sister, I do not know what to do. Birgitte lies here, silver bow in her hair, breathing raggedly. Diana pursues her. She bends her bow.
I sweep away her yellow hair. I kiss her forehead and my soul is singed. Me, not her. Me for her. Me for her.
She is all softness and silence. He is all fire and stone. All these many years and I do not understand this swan from stone.
Flower from clay.
Juliet from Capulet.
I kiss her forehead and my soul sings out its dirge. It reaches for something wild; it hopes for something tame. Soul and spirit are out of tune. But they play. They play. My face is cracked with the dissonance.
And still she burns. And still she breathes ragged, half-formed breaths. And still she sleeps. She is beautiful - sanctified angel. She is three. She is only three. Let her be. Let her be.
My soul is fire. My spirit is forged. I am steel. Unbending. Unforgiving. Tempered. I want to be more. Just let her be. Oh God, let her be. Look away. Be there and not here.