My Proposal

Let's not get married in a place of men. No pretty clothes or rings of polished gold. I have a truer, sharper plan. Come with me to the workshop. Bring the knife the one you keep so clean, your old friend. I want you to write your name upon me. Not with ink that fades, not with a flimsy pen. With the honest tongue of steel. Carve "Ryan" into the skin of my back, deep enough to scar. A signature. A claim. A brand. Let me feel your ownership raised and permanent on my skin, a braille that my own fingers can read in the dark when I am alone and frightened. This will be my vow. And I, with that same hallowed blade, will carve a single, broken teacup over your heart. A sigil of the fragile, splintered thing you so gently protect. A mark to show the world that this tired, broken territory belongs to the Crumb-Queen. Our blood can mix on the floorboards, a holy sacrament. They make rings of metal. We will make rings of our own living tissue. There is no purer wedding than this, my love. No covenant more beautifully deranged.