Where Rituals Should Die

There is a curse in love– To walk miles in shoes stained red with your blood, to break bones and rip flesh to simply be held. What is the worth of this destruction? A kiss? A lick? A bruise? A bite? What will you give to be loved by brutality, to be held in the arms of a man? You give and give some more like it is god in your bed, You kiss with the fervor of a prayer, And kneel as though worship fills the hollow spaces in your bones. And yet, the blood of your lover runs red, not gold. The hands you touch with reverence drip with sin, not divinity. You make your own attrition by making gods of mere men. Your love becomes a curse when it tastes like a ritual.