Where is the line between
a desperate saint and
a grieving sinner?
You stand across the room from me
and all I can wonder…
is if we are reflections.
Only my hands
are stained red,
the reek of rot
wreathing my skin like
mist on an autumn morning.
Your eyes hold a plea,
the hunger in your flesh
whispering of divinity.
When you fall,
it is called an act of sacrifice;
When I fall,
it is a venture towards barbarity.
You have no knowledge
of what blasphemy tastes like.
And I offer to kiss it into your mouth.
Will it make you see?
Will you taste yourself
between my teeth?
We are no different.
Desperation
makes even gods bow.
Grief
teaches even the most tender of violence.