99.02.21

M.L (99.02.21)

•scenes from a life•

And you can suck the wine that has spilled from my lips if I could just but stroke your golden crown of blessed curls once more 

The glistening silken strands that had long since become an object of my yearning, even more than the sun I can no longer see

With a face constructed to be more beautiful and holier than Christ’s 

With fingers designed to ensnare and entangle like the imp’s 

For no catholic hymns held me so close, no cross, ever touched, so tantalisingly cold

I can see myself kneel, possessed by a force unseen, desperate to pledge my faith to which ever being he may come to be

In the childlike hopes I be allowed to breath in his gourmand scent, to feel the wash of it as it grips me through his silken shirts for just once more in my short eternity 

No longer do I feel the shame from the sickening pleads and soul baring promises I’d come to make in the hopes I’d become the sole object of his desire, to be the one who’d ignite those stained glass eyes 

No commission rang too grand should it result in a portrait of myself in his blackened heart 

Both maker and undoer 

Unravelling me from the crisscrossed threads of my only known existence, allowing him to snap them apart, when he must, with bared teeth 

All for a world in which he gently teases my eyes to open

To teach me the expansion of the senses and the release of my soul

Ushering me in to new lights with a possessive hand 

He asks me if I’m afraid of the Devil and with my last shallow breath I answer, 

“no.”