Hymn to the Centipede by Sin Ribbon

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Crepuscular man rising into evening. Let you be all that I declare, with a spine like a centipede that crawls into my mouth just as easily. Here is my ecstasy: undulating slenderness, shoulder blades that burst forth like a singularity when the stars are born. Muscles bound in aligning threads and arteries sewn into mine, his unraveled veins take root beneath the soil of my gaze. Our heartbeats weave together to create a pounding army’s march. Hidden in these thousand pulsing sounds of blood is the song of the lifelong. His flawless form glides through time and space, scarred by introspection. Never forgotten is his confidence or how he stole the devil’s grin.

His back was painted by Da Vinci. He dreams about his past lives. The wind blows dandelion seeds from his hair, the rose-colored scent of wishes alluring my senses. His voice rumbles from boiling lungs. Like the ocean, his eyes torrent and surge with the movements of the tide. The briny waves arc into his shoulders. The bubbly wash circles into hair and breath. Every tooth is sculpted from diamond, curved to ensnare tender female flesh. What strength in those jaws to bite through ribs just to taste the heart.

He consumes and captures like an undertow. His arms embrace like octopus limbs. We are spiraled together, eyes matching the event horizon, our fingerprints mirror images. There is endlessness and possibility in what is braided in-between, for this mouthful of flowers given are promises to keep.

He’s crossed through the shadow’s valley and returns to remember the lessons learned. He knows the purpose of the thorns and the relief of pain let go. With antlers grown of fungus and a soul cast from ivy, his bones encircle mine, suffocating me in a net of communion. He found me only from the peak of the mountain, high enough to see my silhouette burned into the future. This scorching outline peels the folds of our hands, our lifelines looped together.

No mud, no pain, nor sweat clings to us. Every footprint sculpted into the earth is a goal fulfilled. Every steep is a challenge hoped for. Every moment is an inch closer to becoming full of being. These triumphs shape our pact to drink every drop of potential. Buried in these lines are our destinies. We are the first to die and the last survivors.


Sin Ribbon is a storyteller on page, canvas and screen—her work culminated from prose, screenplays, films, and paintings. An eclectic blend, she draws from the philosophical and spiritual to spin existential tales of encouragement and consequence. Her works originate from the caverns of introspection, exploring identity, origin, loss and depression, and the quest for meaning. You can find her artwork at https://sinribbon.com and her narrative podcast, fantasy novel, and other stories at https://universe.vision

 

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