When the boy is on his knees for you,
you will be the one who knights him.
Slicing into his shoulders ever so slightly.
Shallow cuts where you will later lay your head,
hiding your face in his blood.
Blood that will taste metallic on your tongue,
as you lick his wounds clean.
Hold him like you were born for this purpose,
meant to open all of his seams.
Bring him before the crowd,
unraveled, unabashed, unreal.
The citizens will scream,
“This is Knighthood. This is Knighthood.”
Hold him up like a glorious prize,
for this is Knighthood.
Place the very sword in his hands,
which will lead to your demise,
hoping, in fact, that it will lead to your demise.
The sincerity in your face scares him,
you’re begging, begging, begging.
The blade is flat on your tongue;
the taste metallic like his blood.
Close your mouth around it.
The Knight wants to cut you open with care,
fill your veins with snow,
watch your body melt in his hands,
from the warmth of his own.
But slowly, he pulls the sword out of the stone.
You stand very still as your lips split open.
Coward you want to call him,
but he kisses your mouth quiet.
For this is Knighthood.
Ariya Mamun is a Bengali-Canadian-American writer. She is a sophomore at New York University, studying Dramatic Writing. She grew up in the suburbs of Canada and is currently adjusting to city life.