three legged deer

Don’t ask me to write you something tragic - I will not walk five thousand miles to touch the bloodshed, I will not hook fingers with Antigone or sit with Medea. I am sick of endless nights and the taste of iron biting my tongue. I am sick of staring down shower drains and pumping my heart with my own hands. Don’t ask me to tell you about broken things or snapped harp strings - this land has seen enough blood and bone; it can tell its own story.
I’ll say what I want to say - I’ll talk about the night I cracked the moon open like an egg and a three-legged deer hobbled out and it blinked large eyes and its hooves were just paintbrushes. I want to tell you about the levers I found under the bridge - you pull one and the silver rains fall and pull another and the sun is ground turmeric.
I want to talk, not about happiness, but about light and our eyes. I’ll talk about spring and summer and the bright blue of October. About the shape of our hands and our breath like puzzle pieces. Ask me about how the golden hour tastes, how my feet feel on warm stone, how goodbyes can sound sweet. Don’t ask me about bitterness or a mouthful of flesh.
Don’t ask me about tragedy, not with a palm full of seeds.
—  Ars Poetica by S.H.P.