***

Dancing in a room drenched in greed and lust for power, there is no corner to hide. In this room, each woman is ironically left bare, the remnants of velvets and silks truly hiding no aspect, and no curve. At the end, we are fallen, but aligned with the passions and hypocrisies of the men that hold gold at their fingertips. We become slaves, drawn to Midas’s touch, not out of will, but out of necessity.

We become exposed, and we do not bear flawless skin, but rather, our scars hold us. Our scars allow us to be drawn in towards the flame, like pretty little moths.

We lower our gazes, and the cold stainless floor sneers at us, shaming us, for we are not so pure. It is better than daring to look up. The ceilings are adorned with chandeliers, spoils of the wars between them and her. A taunt with which they like to carve pretty little statues we must admire. Ruthless obligations and rules we must adhere to for we lost every single battle.

All the bullets that sunk into the skin of our mothers; the screams that echoed into the battlefields by our sisters; the intricate forms of death our daughters had to face; they all fade out like a flickering candle in a room where a fire burnt. You don’t notice the candle has left ever. Eyes are only ever drawn to the warmth of the fireplace. We all crave warmth until we realise what it means to burn.

And the dance floor is hoarded, each and every corner wallowing in the gilded pockets, gliding with each gluttonous stride on that God forsaken floor - polished and marbled. A sparkle; in their eyes. And those smiles. So devoid of warmth. Yet there is no fear - as their calloused hands grapple every side and angle. Only tightly pursed lips and pale cheeks seeping through their taught skin. Because we must accept. Glorify. Beg. At each glance we strangle those chords in our throats and choke on the spikes of our own fury. And a seething heart is so dangerous to a man. And a bleeding heart is oh so beautiful to a man…

For chandeliers hang like dignity on the noose. And the crystals glistening as they drop from our eyes and shatter against the flames of hell. And somehow it will always be a hand that hangs the chandelier. A hand that hangs the rope. It tightens as the weight of the unspoken whispers sink beneath the ground and we watch the air of hope crawl out of our mouths and into a man’s breath.

We must pretend we can’t see the chandeliers for they are the manifestation of all we failed to break away from. Of what we could not flee from. A net from which the holes are too tight to fight through but we still see the eddying figure of us. She does not wait. She cannot wait. She drags herself along into a moor of black.

***

Sometimes, I am made to align myself with the rhythms of the keys and the cello long enough that my limbs become weary and the urge to collapse begins to grope me. I wonder whether Beethoven and Mozart knew how torturous the sound of their melodies is in my ears. Do they revel in the aches of my limbs?

Each night, the crimson wine allows me to drown in hallucinations. In illusions that I am moving of my own will when I am but such: created from rags, adorned with stitches. Not the Persian rugs across their bedroom floor. Or the thin thread that lines its seams.

I am worthless.

We are the joy of a night, and when the day comes, we drag ourselves from the dead just to relive the cycle. Before the balls, we sit and we paint the canvas of our face into perfections made from mercury and crushed rose petals. Toxicity and ashen perfections. Heave on the clothes from their last night’s sins. Plaster a fiery red on our lips and nail the sides upright. The joke is me.

But then again, he doesn’t like burgundy kisses on nights where he’s had too much to drink. His woes far outweigh his patience and I become the perfect chandelier to crack. He forces me to rub away this colour, and sometimes, my lips are too pale. He craves extravagance. And I despise his want. Loathe his needs.

I curl my brunette hair, unified in an act with all women at the vanity, as we prepare ourselves for the upcoming trial. Sometimes, we engage in the anguish long enough till the grief coats our bodies and the pain drenches our hearts. Constantly, we fear the next chance of being paraded for we are like the deer admired by the hunter before he strikes the arrow deep into our flesh. We are the chandelier in the centre, and we inevitably fall.

Riya and Lishyx

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Born from darkness; as ethereal as connotations to the unlit can take you; she exists. I named her my pretty little moth, and though that would mean she could fade into the shadows, it was rather that she was my guide towards light in the depths of the night. Like how each night, she dragged me like a corpse tied against her, and I would grasp upon the curls at her waist, just so if she ever tried to let go of me, that I could cling to the pieces of her.

But the striking reality is she is trying to let go of me when all I wish is to drop all society’s ideologies and sacrifice myself at her altar. To let her drop the masks she’s holding against her face and to confide in me again. To be her confidant was a blessing I never cherished till the moment I lost it and now, I live beyond time itself, transfixed in a world where the memories of her rotate around me like the way I see stars when my head is battered against the wall.

They say moths are attracted to flames, but I was always attracted to her silent beauty that echoed in the depths of my heart. Somehow, following her in the nights meant I eventually felt myself caught up in the infernos too, and there was no hope of the burning sensation of ever being cooled. So what if she threatened to douse the flames of my passion? Would that even be possible with all the oceans of the world? Perhaps my emotions might react with all that water and change it, so that it might dissipate and her silent rage might leave her. Oh she despises me more than I’ve ever done myself.

I can’t even say I blame her, but I’m coated in lovesickness eternally.

To be despised by your lover is knowing at every corner, their hands will be around your neck, strangling you. It is being haunted with the knowledge that they want your death. It is the acceptance of that ending, for all is fair in love and war and to die at those arms would be the greatest blessing.

Oh she is a daughter of Fate’s ruthless trials and she dares to transcend all of conventionality and tradition, and I gratefully submit to her expectations.

Born from hell; a mask of deceit that envelops his face; he exists. He was the embodiment of the idiocy my mind had let in; a disgusting incarnation of what it’s like to mistake compassion that is thrown at me.

Each night, he would spit lies in my face with a smile so tender I believed him, and he would embrace me with the knife in his chest pointing at me, just a jab away from my end.

I pray to let go of him - cut his skin like lamb to the slaughter. To conceal every inch of me till he could no longer see me again. I refuse to slip into his comfort and let him take my life away and watch him twist it in his hands and shred every piece till it resembles no more than the love that departed so keenly.

They say the ocean washes away all the worries from yesterday, but all he brought me was the pain I wish he had not chained me to. Having him near me meant throwing myself into the inferno I tried to block out and the burns left would remain for too long. I shouldn’t have fallen. And yet I’m taunted by how I did.

So I hope to break his caged up heart and bathe him in the rain of his cruelty. Watch him grasp for salvation but all he finds is the shackles he placed at my feet; ones which he will place upon his wrists. And I may never find that love again whilst it stands in front of me, eyes hooked to mine. Oh how I despise his very bones but I just can’t seem to let him go.

To hate but long for such a crooked figure is knowing that you hate yourself more. Knowing that with each breath, you finally found freedom but he tyrannises your mind till everything blows smoke. “All is fair in love and war” yet not fair when I bleed upon the floor.

He is the son of wrath and he chose to release an undying love unto me; I abhor his stature, bent on his knees, as if under me.

He makes a mockery.

Out of me.

His head hung low, as if gravity pulled him in. He couldn’t seem to hold my glare. Pathetic. His hands weighed beside him, unmoving. Anticipating for the moment I let my words foam at my mouth and tears boil in my eye beds. Still was I, stiffer than his rigid body, rooted in the earth that yearned for a carcass such as his. And I would gift it to the mother myself.

**

The dagger seeps into his abdomen. It pierces so smoothly I almost feel no regret. I had never met a man who praised me on a pedestal and battled the rope to pull me down. But I do not need a platform to fly anymore. My wings bring me higher than Icarus ever sought and the melting wax will only lighten my back. That is what he becomes for me. And unending torment, that I will hurt ruthlessly.

So I twist the knife and let his eyes rest - let him embrace what was once worth living. To take his life away was to save my soul. You hurt me my love - it was all you.

To die at my hands was my mercy. The ocean, who shone brighter than moonstones and kissed my knuckles before my lips. I used to want him eternally. I don’t know if he wanted the same. But he will find the grim reaper at his final breath and all the things we did would be the first thing he’ll reminisce. It was his fault it had to end this way.

The dagger goes deep into my abdomen. The way it sinks holds all her emotions and she doesn’t know that in this act she has confided in me wordlessly. Perhaps she’s forgotten I’ve known her soul so long that each moment of her is a confession, and I soak up the things she’s saying.

Maybe that’s what stings the most. That even after all I’ve done, even after all her rage, she is still the moth that remains attracted to the flame. I told her loving me would kill her but her wings have not incinerated. She still flies. She still soars over the night sky and it haunts me that I could be this for her, this unending torment, but that she could still look me in the eye and make it all hurt ruthlessly.

I guess that is what comes of ruining what you love more. Risking the fact that they’ll hate you eternally even though you wish to say “I told you so”. I did not kill her externally, but I have burnt her lungs and began the cycle of decay in her heart. Inevitably, we both lose, me with my regrets that I warned her of, and her with her shattered trust.

She twists the knife and I shut my eyes, embracing this pain. It is mine eternally, for physical pain does not amount to the emotional agony tearing my soul. I hurt my love - that was all me.

So to die at her hands is a blessing. My pretty little moth, with eyes like moonstones that used to memorise the lines of my face before she drew me. She wanted me eternally. I wanted the same. But we dance the waltz of death and torn between her heartbreak and my lovesickness, lies all the things we did, and intrinsically, I guess it is my fault we dance this way.

- Riya and Lishyx

We wanted to create a piece that followed the perspectives of two people caught between their conflicting emotions; once lovers, now mortal enemies. We followed the lovesickness and the painful heartbreak of each respective side in their emotions at the decline of the relationships, and ending this almost love-letter-series, wish to continue to showcase more scenarios of relationships. If this piece resonated with you, watch out for upcoming similar pieces that dance on the double-edged sword of emotions.

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