ALEKSANDER PREWETT.

i run my fingers over your soul, and gently pour my love into each crack i find.

i run my fingers over your soul, and gently pour my love into each crack i find.

we are the stories we tell ourselves. the brave hero, the tortured soul, the altruist, the pragmatist. they will tell you who they see, but you and you alone know who you are.

i ask god to send a swordsman and god says, “look at your hands.”

do you still believe myths can save you? foolish creature. let me be clear: every version of the story ends with you being slaughtered.

i will not ask you to remember me. i know that your name was always destined for history books and legends, and i will not haunt the memory of you like a persistent shadow.

whether you come as a lover or an executioner, i am ready to receive you.