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And here, to a completely different tune, is today’s word.

Day Two: Accusation

Black. Black like poison, slipping from your tongue, my tongue, our tongue.

Collective–we breath the same air, speak the same spells. Our words hug in deceit, beguiling smiles glinting with just a hint of treachery.

This is for your own good! Each word falls on dead ears. Pulling their daggers, striking at the gut, in the back. Searching for the heart.

Dancing now, with our blood pouring out. Dancing in the hot, sticky pulses with our tricks and knives and costumes. We are ugly, so ugly, but awash in the blood we feign beauty. Dancing, madly, to the ritual we always seem to find: even after swearing off your enemy, my enemy, our enemies. All for the common good.

But we are enemies without reason! Screaming, my knife is at your throat–it is pushing deeper, deeper, as far as it can go, as we dance in bloodlust and again draw our sharpened tongues. Quills, we carve the words into each other’s skin. Singeing away flesh, gobbling up old scabs, tearing away muscle to leave open, fetid wounds.

Devouring, because bloodlust is hard work. We are hungry and we embrace savagery like an old friend.

Hello. Come in, and help us consume.

Finished and full, lips smacking, bellies swollen. Feeling sick after the gorge. Lunacy has a price, one we thought of only after we supped on its finery.

We scamper away to inspect ourselves, retreating into hollow caves. Each one worse than the other-or is it the opposite? Bleeding, we are torn. Flayed. Mutilated. We bind our wounds and get cozy, bathing with salts and salves. Remembering the blood lust; it is running in our minds like reels of tape, caught on repeat. Each blow a little harder, each word a little louder.

Did I do that? My words are silent epitaphs in my throat, your throat, our throat. Those hands wielding destruction–those are not my hands. We cast down our knives in horror, cursed weaponry housing evil we dare not claim. But perhaps the real horror is that they are only twigs. Sticks. Stones. Our eyes light on them, and twist inward.

How did we do so much damage with such inconsequential trifles?

Regret is now our costume–but quick–-bury it in pride.

Accusation emerges from the shadows and feasts on the remaining carnage. We did not see him standing there. We never do.

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