We and us, as gods of ink,
with stars snatched in fists made of paper and power,
shall sin.

Then, almost dutifully, we will eat the smoke
from worlds on fire with theories
of who we should’ve been.

And all the while, we will watch
as our names are pressed into
thick, gilded, holy pages,
like old flowers meant for sacrifice–
as if those frozen, broken stories
could possibly smother our own.

Later, our lungs will grow heavy
with the sort of magic that creeps through dirt
in shades of red, and we’ll carry it all
like a curse.
It’s sure to rot through our pens in much
the same way that tar tears into teeth.

But still, we are gods, and our magic,
though rough and violent and shot through with poison,
is still magic.

In the end, every word our voices crash into
will rupture and erupt into…