Savron is only performance art
For the actor is him
And he is them.
Savron is only them
For they are only him
And I am only Her.
We are together one.
For me, there is nothing more he is than I am.
He is me.
Words cannot describe.
They cannot describe.
The words cannot describe.
A man like Mr. Savron is not a man.
Words cannot describe.
They won’t leave
They cannot leave.
Smashed against the cabinet.
Blood and scrapes of blood.
Flesh and blood.
They won’t leave.
One version performed by two voices, singing in unison on the same pitch, reading the same sheet music.
They repeat. They repeat again and again and again they repeat.
He lays upon me and I on him.
I cannot breathe.
Why won’t they leave?
Patterns and repetition.
The mind attached
Patterns and repetition.
I take a breath and wait.
Silence overcomes me.
My mouth dry and screams a silent scream.
My body null to mourn yet my heart fills with anguish.
He is on top.
I do not know who I lay with.
But if I act like I do and act like I believe I do, then what makes me think I don’t?
A man, dead.
My body shuddered.
I cannot breathe as hard as I try.
A soul immovable.
The high branches scream another name I’m not aware of.
At the mid-way and the sun.
Pushed into the wall, she looked limp and helpless.
The man on the ground could not care less for his life left this room hours ago.
She stared back at me, and I could not look straight into her eyes.
Distracted of the man on the ground and the dent in the wall and her blood on the floor.
His face was sullen.
He could not look at me.
I felt trapped under him.
He moved in relation to his own rhythm, and I laid quiet, immovable to his aggression.
Is this love?
Possibly, despite my quiet reserve, I laid there and savored this moment.
Like all of the others, I had no reason to feel harmed.
We have been waiting for this our whole lives.
His life and mine, tied together at the base and spiraling outwards towards the top.
A flower to reach towards the sky and accept the sun.
A religious, ornate commencement.
His arms lay in an abrasive way, to catch a fall that he could not predict.
I wonder of his final thoughts.
Mostly shock, I imagine.
Her face is going pale.
I can’t help but wonder, as well for her.
I grab her arm with the most force I can put behind it.
My momentum meets hers and I come crashing down next to her.
I grab the area behind her neck and move her head to my shoulder.
Let’s sit and wait.
We breathe together, matching each other’s pulse.
I feel her body on mine and feel as though her body is my own.
I am her.
What am I doing?
Her warmth was not enough.
Sitting here was not enough.
I am not enough.
I feel him inside me pretending to be me.
He pretends but feels genuine.
His body is not mine but is.
Like mine to him.
I do not feel as though I am him, but he feels as though he is me.
He plays the parts: him, Savron, himself as Savron, and me.
But he is he and I am her.
Tough as it is to understand, he is everything at once, and I can only struggle to understand.
He lays on top of me and lets his weight surround my body.
I am her.
I feel her body inside and out and feel myself on myself.
Touch and go; we are him.
I am her.
Strict and complicit are the names I have known to be true.
I lose track of who he is and I am.
There is another I see to be more him than he is.
I gather the courage and take him in.
She does not get it.
Is she acting or real?
I’m more than upset sitting here, now.
She must have known what she was doing.
Why don’t I walk out that door and leave?
I don’t need to be here, and he doesn’t need me, and I don’t need him.
This confused person lays on top of me showing what he thinks is affection but is siphoning my lungs.
Can it be that I cannot leave even if I tried?
His identity is mine to his and so on.
For the act, it feels wrong.
He stands there now and looks at me.
My life is trapped in a box with a hole for me to look into.
Potent is his body now.
It’s starting to bloat.
I’ve never seen something like this before.
Do I just continue to sit with her, or begin to start chores again, or throw him away?
What would he do if he were me as him?
What would she do if she were me feeling as she was?
Anxiety is entering her mind, now.
I feel it in mine too.
As much as I want to and as hard as I try, I let my tears roll down my face towards the ground.
I’m crying not because I know why or understand for what reason; I cry because I can and that is a feeling worth having.
I start to curl up into a ball and he just lays there doing nothing about it.
For an instant, I thought I heard him sniffle.
The apartment is clinical.
The examination room is our bedroom, prepped and ready for operation.
There is a faint atmosphere of observation as though the walls are see-through but not for us.
I can’t feel safe in my own skin let alone in this apartment with him.
He shows his affection outwardly but uses me like an object to mimic rather than understand.
Does he know of Savron?
I am him more than he is him and I am not him and neither is he.
I have met others, but they are different than he is, yet they are all him all the same.
I rollover in the bed to meet his eyes with my own.
His eyes are glossy and full of tears.
He may begin to fall asleep if I stay this way.
I wrap an arm over his chest and close my eyes.
Icicles lay on the stony floor of an apartment too true to see.
His eye saw us, though.
Thawing together as one, I trembled in fear of the speaker whose sign led me astray.
“Speak to our senses,” one man cried, “for we cannot see but the ice and the eyes of time.
Speak for us who cannot bear to witness the ice.
To all of us who stand before you.”
He did not blink.
He did not speak.
Someone came in from behind us.
At first, startled then relieved, then startled again, for the eye saw all and more ice formed on the wall.
Darkness began to set in the crowded apartment.
The man turning blue from cold uttered to no one in particular, “Save me from myself.”
The man collapsed, and he again walked through the door behind us, staring at his collapsed body.
Another group came with him.
Now the room became unbearable.
We had too many.
How long do I keep acting like I don’t know?
How long should lay here thinking about all of the ways to tie myself up and never leave?
How long does it take for this all to make sense when there is no answer?
How long should I keep going?
I cannot begin to explain everything.
Something feels inherently wrong being here, now.
I want to fight back, but I know it is not written that way.
These thoughts are not mine, but they are.
Who cares of Savron?
I know I don’t and neither does Savron.
There is no Savron.
There is no him and I and me and Her and them.
There is nothing here that is worth talking about.
If a comet were to head towards us and destroy our lives, it would miss.
It would be as if we were to bring life from ash.
Looking outward, there is only a hallway with four walls.
No doorway exists that does not lead back here in some way.
Another Savron and another me.
I start running down the hallway.
I smash my head into the wall, repeatedly.
I won’t stop until I don’t feel the force against my body.
The weight of my head bangs into the wall as I slowly lose my ability to see clearly.
Blood starts to welt on my forehead.
I don’t stop.
There is nothing I want more than this right now.
I can scream all I want and try again.
I step back.
I keep walking backwards, step in step; a phantom retracing its steps.
I go again.
This time with more emotion.
The wall stands tall.
Reverence for my being and my acting and bashing and my skull.
I back up again.
I run again.
I do not make it to the wall this time.
I feel it crumble as I trip over myself and skid on the carpet.
I know that my life is nothing more than waiting and sitting, but I cannot wait and sit without thinking about it. He walks away like nothing happened. What he has done to me no other has done before. Strap me down and kick me until I lose my mind. Don’t leave me here to stay and watch.