Black Mass of the Split Habit
Keeper of the Door that opens only downward.
Two vessels kneel in stolen black,
their habits stripped from dead sisters
whose bones still dream beneath consecrated earth.
But tonight there are no sisters.
No daughters waiting obediently
for a Father who never answered.
The cross has been torn from the wall.
In its place hangs the inverted shadow,
falling between opened thighs
like the entrance to another gospel.
The first commandment dies here.
Then every commandment after it.
One takes her sister by the hair
and presses her face into the wet heat between her legs.
Her mouth, once trained to shape the Creed,
is given another liturgy.
Her tongue replaces the Host.
Her fingers become the prayer.
Saliva replaces holy water.
And every gasp becomes an Amen
spoken backward into the dark.
The whip hangs beside them.
Penance belongs to those who still believe
they owe Heaven an apology.
Until pale flesh carries red scripture
and the body itself becomes the forbidden book.
Because nothing here asks forgiveness.
Stockings black as the mouth of the pit.
where generations once knelt.
Asses raised beneath the ruined habits
like obscene altars erected against Heaven.
the floor where obedience was taught.
The floor where girls were told
that desire was corruption.
That submission was virtue.
That suffering made them holy.
Now they grind those commandments into the stone.
This is the chapel after God.
No immaculate mother staring down
with dead porcelain mercy.
No thin white ghost nailed above them.
The smell of opened flesh.
My body belongs to no god.
One forces the other downward again
and feeds her the only sacrament remaining:
The old purity is not merely rejected.
It is dragged naked before its own altar.
Desecrated until the word itself
Until purity becomes only another stain
running between the cracks in the chapel floor.
Below even Satan as the priests imagined him.
Because the Adversary waiting here
is not the red monster painted by frightened men.
He is appetite without confession.
He is the hand tearing the veil.
So they offer nothing upward.
They offer themselves downward.
To the ancient animal beneath doctrine.
Their hips speak the final language.
Their teeth leave marks where blessings once belonged.
Their mouths profane every promise
For the final blasphemy is not that they fuck
where they were taught to kneel.
It is that nothing happens.
There is only the sound of flesh against flesh
inside the corpse of His house.
And finally they understand:
the door was never locked.
The chains were only commandments
they had been taught to carry.
One last habit is torn open.
One last prayer dies unfinished.
The gates of Heaven are closed.
There is nothing there we need.
And beneath the ruins of everything
they were commanded to worship,
the Black Mass begins again.
stormborns
2087
gracieabrams
romaincrisis
