In all,
you have been too polite
in the enduring of
your chains.
Your fiery soul
is now but an ember,
and he, slimy and bloated
with your life’s blood,
grins and swells
over the wound of your
exsanguinating heart.
No longer, dear sister,
can I stand beside you
in the tortured, screaming
silence that echoes
from your sobbing
throat in the
wee hours.
You will not lay claim
to who you are,
will not become
who you were meant
to be.
And so, dear sister, dearest self,
I leave this pristine statue
of your existence
in its cold and marbled hall,
its very stillness reflecting
the ebbing life
within you.
Not for me.
I will bathe in blood,
and sing lilting harmony to
the screaming souls
that dance around
my pagan fire.
I love them all,
but kill them always.
And when you decide
to step down from
the frozen pedestal on
which he lashes
the layers of your flesh, opens you to the flies
that feast on his corpulent manhood
and withered lust,
just take my hand.
BlackQuill 