figure.07

it was anathema

midwest wind hums recurring empty dreams tonight. a vessel of rage exposes itself under dusk rainfall.

i’m not in the basement anymore. the dark cursed me out.

holiness devours away at my skin. unfamiliar. it hurts. there is no hunger in my bones, only want and desperation.

stumbling down a beaten path, half-stars morph into a misguided map.

skeletal, my shadow creaks around on its way to find divinty. knife to my throat, i’m seeking god again.

your god wants to speak. you aren’t listening. he doesn’t have the words.

memories crash and burn, malleable and weak. truth muddied with lies. the past: ongoing, ritualistic, swollen. when will i get what i want?

don’t misunderstand me. / my fatal flaw: always haunting the precipe of sacrifice. / what if my image of god causes my ruin? / i’m lost again. nothing i want aligns with what i need. / i’m walking backwards into my own myth. / (i’m trying to get out.) / i kneel in the graveyard of my attic. / i marry myself to dirt without care for a ring or witnesses. / i hold my own hand throughout all of this. / maybe if i loosen my grip, something will stay. / if i let go of these self-proclaimed visions and let someone else shout these prophecies instead.

these actions offer no certainty. there is nothing to fear. there is so much to fear.

the mirror cracks, god appears. he’s bruised like an approaching thunderstorm. he’s as familial as a night terror; an infected relic demanding no betrayal this time. he is a beast who roams among vultures.

i kiss my god. i kiss my devil. with my gold rush smile and shifting eyes. the touch of his sunburnt hands linger on my face. it’s the dead of winter.

is god still a god with my blood pouring from his mouth?