27 April 2017

“The devil can’t see us, either”, a wise man said.

My mother stands next to my bed with a whip, a thin black lace veil covers her eyes. I always preferred crops.

My finger tips twitch again.
The nails still reek of blood. Ask your back for proof. Search for your eyes underneath my claws.

Last time I climaxed, I cut my father’s throat. Stabbed him in the eye with a dagger.
Screamed and laughed like thunder.
I swallowed the earth.

I tasted the holy. We’re dead already.
My feet won’t rise above the water, yet I’m marching on.

Sometimes I visit the ill and poor. I watch closely. Their wounds fascinate me. I hunger for demise.
I touch dead bodies.
And surely I demand to see my saviours’ wounds. I like to feel them with my fingers.

Undress, love. I want to drink you.
We are the wounded. We are the flesh. We create gold with blackness.

I. S., 27.4.2017


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