all of my devotion turns violent
all of my devotion turns violent
'do you still think you're a killer or that you could be if you tried?' (isobel, flower face)
there’s a boy on the side of the road. he sits there in his own blood waiting for a beautiful boy to come save him or at least keep him company as he goes. if anyone bothered to stop and look over, they would have thought he was roadkill and they wouldn’t have been entirely wrong.
he begs for christ to come back down, hopes of a blood transfusion flood his thoughts. this is what he asked for: “please, the blood that runs through me has been corrupted and it’s eating me alive. give me all the good in you, all that you inherited from your mother.”
as he lay dying on the wet asphalt, wide and watchful eyes take in his body from across the highway. even as life crawls out of his veins, the boy acknowledges the miracle especially when it places its hands over his injuries. jesus sent a miracle disguised as a beautiful boy, one who will offer something instead. no exchanging of words is needed, both boys understand what happens next. selfishly, they’re both starving for it. they understand what they hold inside will eventually kill a living thing one way or another; a slaughter waiting to happen with no witnesses to applaud the sacrifice. grey meets green, a silent message: ‘which of us will be the killer?’
oh sweet mourning lamb, your savior craves the rot that comes alongside the bittersweet sting of death. no one else is coming, give him all of it; you’re all bruises, all gore, all scars.
the miracle begins to work with fingers digging into wounds and mixing tears with blood. in all his glory, he won’t can’t take his eyes off of the wreckage lying underneath him. love won’t save either of them, but desecration might; love isn’t selfish enough, it knows jesus and their devotions are too violent.
for these wretched last moments, the blood pooling out of your mouth becomes his. the nearly silent whimpers that escape you escape him, too. your lesions appear all over his body except he bleeds blue almost as if the universe hasn’t discovered them yet; almost as if the body continues to keep everything inside even as it overflows. his love presents itself in the form of scalpels piercing flesh. let me in let me in let me in. after all, shouldn’t love force its way in?