aistė tiriūtė

he's not the beast; I am.

he came from the moonlight. Blinded, for a second, I covered my eyes from crystal light that he bled from thousands of wounds in his trembling body. He bled on a tired land across the moon’s path, he bled on my hands when he fell to embrace the grass,
he bled
into my

he woke up only the next night, with wind and wails of his prey in the ears. He opened his black cruel eyes and his howl rocked the whole world.
only I (a lunatic) see his unwept desolation. It dissects air and my throat with diamond splinters, when I chant for the night along with his blood. In complete silence his silvery teeth clatter; light sensation fills my veins and it doesn’t hurt, when flowing coldness finally leaves me.
and all around us the stars (that he taught me to exhale) will pop
electric discharges, maybe fireworks in the air
I’m staying here, in the shadows of nacreous moon, to dream the dreams of werewolves.

he’s not the beast; I am.

conjuring spring

When winter comes, cold air engraves her throat and congeals her cells to deep sleep. She lies in her secret attic, hidden, alone, but she never knew anything better, so she’s calm in that dusty dull place, where the history of times is conserved.
There she sleeps, until the heat inside starts burning so much that she has to move her stiff, porcelain bones, and her hair becomes fire itself.
She distills flowers and becomes them, the essence of life, reborn on her lips.

the wise-men, twin, teeth and amputated legs

Get up to the night, in a white form, black silk slips through my legs. Pale pillar of light, the ghost of thoughts, talk, talk to your twin, he’s behind the glass, he’s alive and he’s breathing, he’s pounding at nothingness with his small fists and he wants to get out. His speech is flowing, don’t make me seep through the uneven floor, to collapse into a puddle before the legs of a mirror, don’t turn me into a void as I was born from it.
And the wise-man scratched the back of his head with his blackened fingers, then slowly lifted the cup of tea near his lips. Only the truth comes out from them. At least promotional booklet says so. He himself still obscurely remembers how once, when he was young and foolish, he found a coin on his village’s dusty public road. He found a coin and he bought a most expensive big stick of chocolate for his pale cousin. The wise man saw who dropped the coin, but he didn’t try to bring it back to it’s owner, he didn’t say a thing. Because, he thought silently and guiltily, it was for a good purpose.
After me there will be only my teeth left. nacre. shining. their crown is transparent. When I was little, I used to steal beautiful and sparkling tiny stones from my grandpa, he called them jewels. I still have one, it reminds me of my teeth and I have to hide it, it reminds me of the things people don’t talk aloud.
His name was Staphylococcus aureus, they called him the Golden Staph. In my head it sounds like an uncommon pretty bird with feathers colored like sunset, but call him three times and he will come as a curse. He crawled near the bare feet, cuddled gently with it’s sweet destruction and soon it was over. they amputated the leg on Thursday.