There is no beautiful way to tell you I’m depressed. Faced with so many compounding
horrors, my body sets to slow fade, a phantom. I’ve been losing my days running headlong
When your world is ruled by another,
you are forced to perform, to spit,
to jump,
to be cruel when all you want is to be beautiful.
It’s a chore parsing whispers, so tiring to listen.
To abandon my ghasts on sea air would be harm;
ceding ash to dry wind, gunpowder to lightning.
It’s been miles since
and still, little pink,
you shed amber
glow in my palm,
gurgle-chirp
in your cradle
of nebulous honey.
It sings for me to reenter familiar steps. It calls my right hand
home under my katana’s guard and for my knees to bend as I wait
for the rhythm. It is a pity most never see the end of this dance.
We think video games are literature, and so why shouldn't there be literature about video games? That's the question we're hoping to answer here. Read more.
