I had a lover, they were an amazing cook. A chaotic melody of turmeric, sweet chili and imported chili flakes. So hot you kept them wrapped and sealed in a black bag, lodged into the furthest corners, on the highest shelf. You needed searching hands to touch their skin.
I wanted them on my tongue. I am sure I was not the only one who wanted to unwrap their menacing ways. Their color was electrifying and for those who could withstand the movement of their soul, the disturbance was a worthy treat, for their flavors could appease a hungry belly and their taste was as sharp as a knife, they were talented with sharp things and this talent lived in their eyes.
After meeting them, for the seventh time, they cooked me a meal and I left with red flowing down my chest. I fell to the ground and heard the sound of my heart beat. Blood surrounded me, I should have listened to my gut.
No one kills for love, everyone kills for fear. They had warned me, told me that they would push me until I released the eternity of belief, they thought lived in me.
I was being watched. I was being appeased. My actions would be reflected in the silver they used to cut me.
They left my body there, waiting for me to rise from the dead.
My next move would be vital, if I came back to life with the same lies- they would cut me again.
I should not have come.
I was not prepared. My searching hands have left me dead.
Photography by Darius Iromlou
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