Statue.

I am a statue: this much was mutually agreed earlier.

I am a statue, atop a soft golden dune, whose many vices shine splendidly, searing the eye should the light strike at just the right angle.

My dense foot of marble has the dormant rage of the assassin; my heavy arms, the pressureless liberation of a victor. Poised to release the devastasting shift of movement rising through taut legs; a billion newtons, or a trillion. A blurred rainbow of kinetic energy.

With an ear-shattering crack, my vices break off one by one, but only if I like you enough; the pulsing of sweet red ants rushing to the surface of the wound. Each new blowhole, stripped of its contaminating sin, slick with blood. Death by 1000 vices: angst, jealousy, lust, pride, inertia, tautology.

I am a statue, imperfect, but being smoothed out by the scalpel. Where there once stood an ugly nub of bone representing tautology, now there is a little rough scar, its two ends carefully pulled together and cauterised. The gagging stink of sulphur and the hiss of steam, oh, surgeon.

Weighty as a gravestone am I; a sublime suspension; forces cancelling themselves out, until the command to drop to earth, like a giant lever, is uttered. I shall split the earth when I fall, leaving a crater in my midst, my statue-mouth full of stones and mud and grit. What machine of work could budge this monolith?

For you, I crash back into the world from my high ground. For you, there is only obmutescence. For you, the colossus punctures the atmosphere, without having to be asked a second time.