In the category of things I can’t say, it’s a crushed whisper between thumbs and lace- Novella of symbols spread silk thin across the shoulders of a god too big to love.

She’s a liar but it sounds right. Sounds noble, aware, composed. Sounds like reflection because you can’t see through the mirror she spits into your mouth and you wouldn’t know better anyway. Silk spun spider-lovely across the abyss she killed him in. Big god, big love. Big mess, lot of blood. Pretty acolytes dusting for fingerprints everywhere but her mouth. Not like she could’ve ever spit them out.

Strolled out of the hellmouth like she hadn’t just killed a man- a cleaner, leaner, shinier babygirl had never been born. Dewey and new. You can skip the birth squeeze that broke every bone. She did. Glossed right over it, stuck the landing on both busted feet. Lovely. Lovely. At least, in a certain light.

I’ll never tell, you know. The depths we shoved our dicks into. Our own private plague, how lovely. How lovely. We summoned some hideous beasts, fucked them and watched them bleed. Slow dancing on the killing floor, we turned that charnel house into charnel home. You know by now about meat in an old well, and you should know you can’t build a house out of living bones. Rot in the living is slow poison. Predictable death. You have to cut off the affected limb (I am not a tumor) and save the soul. I know almost nothing about you except the things no one should. 

The sun limps up a bruised sky to greet me, and I smile. It’ll always be me here at the apex. I am never what you’re looking for, and I am always what you’ll find. At every end, in every beginning, this is what you’ll face. The truth of yourself and the honesty of its translation. You don’t have to climb, grab the hand of the mysteries and haul yourself up into my wheelhouse. You should, you should face me and unseat heaven. Unleash hell. You really should because I’ll be here all the same. 

[Painting is “j/d” by Dusty Ray.]