Awful things…
Bloodlines
Are fickle
Nasty
Things
At night
I press
A spoonful of honey
Under my tongue
To bend my enemies
To bind my fears
To sweep the awful future away
I crouch
Low
An animal in reverence
And beg the help
Of the ghosts in my mind
For all the temples
That have housed
And harmed me
This is perhaps
The most devastating
I am made
Acolyte
Neophyte
Obedient, to the point
Of suffering
I ask
The everlasting echo
To shield me
Shroud me
Guide me
And take the nothingness
For an answer
The young women say
You have to make yourself
The god
You have to chisel
Your own commandments
Slaughter your own
Sacrifices
Make your own miracles
Warm your own bed
But how can I stray
From the worn-smooth path
Of the sufferers before me?
Will I not become salt
For daring to look back?
Will I not become ash
For lifting my eyes?
Atira C. © 2023. All rights reserved.
