Work Text:
Denji
Engi-ne
of my heart....
No no no, that wasn’t right. That was terrible. Asa scratched the poem out with her pen, etching severe wounds through the words and into the paper.
Chainsaw Man, oh Chainsaw man,
I wish I could, I know you can -
Worse! Even worse! She put her head in the crook of her arm and let out a frustrated scream, stomping her feet in the space beneath her desk and accidentally banging her knees. The night outside the apartment was quiet. The scream came back to her ears in a pitifully thin way, and she felt all the worst for it - not to mention the throbbing in her knees.
This mess was all for Yoru - no, it was all to get her body back, of course. All she had to do was get Denji to fall in love with her, and voila, by some trick of perception, some childish game of ‘what’s mine is mine and what’s yours is mine too’, Yoru would be able to own Chainsaw Man, and Asa would be free of her. That was their contract, their promise, and the only thing that kept Asa going on nights when the maddenss of having that devil watching her every move drew deep panic sweat from her pores.
So - poetry! It was romantic! She’d seen it in countless films, read about it in books. Even the wikipedia page for poetry listed its cultural use as confessions of love, as an affectionate gift, throughout the ages. Could Denji resist the poetry of a fun, cute girl like Asa? No, of course he couldn’t. If she could find the right combination of words and phrases in this game she could stir his heart. It should be easy. After all, he was able to do the same to hers without even trying.
My dear Denji, when I hear the whirr
of your chainsaw arms, I.....
This was hopeless.
Asa sat up, stretched her tired arms above her head and looked back down at her desk. How many attempts was this now, 10? Half-ripped papers covered in eraser shavings surrounded her like shrapnel. Writing had never been her strong suit, and the last time she wrote a poem was probably back in elementary school, when learning about haiku. She crumpled up the last paper she’d written into a ball and tossed it behind her.
There was silence where she expected to hear the sound of the paper bouncing against her bed, and then Yoru spoke.
“This is a terrible poem.” came Yoru’s voice - mocking, as always, and on the verge of laughter. “You’re not going to win him over like this.”
The devil was leaning against a wall, holding onto the crumpled poem. A few others were scattered beneath her, crushed underfoot.
“I didn’t ask for your thoughts on this, Yoru.” Asa said. “Ouch!”
Yoru tossed the paper ball back, and nearly hit Asa in the eye.
“Just use your body - he’s a man, it’s what he wants!”
“No! I’m doing this my way!”
“Your way is stupid,” Yoru replied, and then, with a laugh she added visciously. “Besides, I don’t think that boy can read!”
...It was a possiblitily, she had to admit. Denji wasn’t the sharpest person she knew. She’d seen his test scores posted on class bulletins, had watched him struggle to read middle-school level kanji. He tried, though, and she loved to see him try.
She ignored Yoru and bent her head to write another poem. The words weren’t coming easily. She still had to reach and pull for them to try and string together something coherent and beautiful based in the feelings she refused to acknowledge.
“That’s alright, I’ll read it to him instead. I can still win him over this way.” she replied.
And maybe it’d keep Denji alive a little longer too. That might be worth a few more tries at rough poetry.