Blame and Abuse

What is desire,

if not a cathedral built on bone?

The difference between a kiss and a bite

is how long the mouth stays open after.

One is a benediction.

The other, a burial.

So sweeten your tongue with hemlock and honey

before whispering rot into my name.

Anoint your knuckles with perfume

then strike like a god delivering prophecy.

Make my face a stained-glass window

shattered in devotion.

Gift me a crimson lipstick

to bleed prettily for you,

to draw a mouth that smiles

even when it begs for silence.

Trace your vows in bruises

like dark roses blooming down my spine.

Etch your longing into my flesh

with talons that tremble from want.

Call it love

this cathedral of wounds.

This altar of ruin.

Tell me I am your chosen.

Your lamb,

your witch,

your wound.

And I

I believe I was carved for you,

stitched together not for joy

but for sacrifice.

Not as lover,

but relic.

Not as muse,

but martyr.