Let the ribs show in their slow white arc. Crack them if you must. C'mon, don't you want to hear it ?

—Sliding wet noises as your hands sink in my guts while the slick give beneath your finger. Massage the pulsing organs, scrape your fingernails against the soft lining of my stomach, and pull. Squelching, dragging, sinking deeper; dig and spread until you could only hear the small obscene music of a thing taken apart and made to sing—

Look at you, trembling over a simple sliver of metal. So much for divine grace. Are all of heaven’s creatures this fragile when faced with their own making, or are you just stalling for my pity?

Press. It’s only flesh, little seraph. Even angels are meant to tear.

© 2019 @/sugarcookiesandsins

I will vivisect this whole singing, rotting world and construct You a throne of twitching cartilage, if only You will press Your heel to my throat and command me to bleed.

Punish me, my Sovereign.

Flay my wings and make me bleed for breaking your precious toy. For kissing the ribs with equal tenderness you would have thought me merciful. For pressing my mouth to the wound, tasting the copper liturgy of it and praying, praying, praying into the open red of you.

It is You I crave, always You.

Offer your throat to my blade, and I will prostrate at the sight of your spilled viscera. Let your ribcage be cracked open while I carve my name into the wet of your heart; ravaged and wrecked and razed to the ground.

You, me, and total annihilation. The natural order. The only way that things can ever be.

Take my throat between your hands and squeeze until the light fades from my eyes.

Crush me beneath the weight of your desire, grind me to dust, reduce me to nothingness.

And as my vision swims with encroaching darkness, as my punctured lungs gurgle a froth of blood and bile, see to it that my last hitching breath forms itself around your name in benediction.

My heart's blood, my sanctuary, the very soul of my soul. You are so merciful, allowing even pathetic, mewling lumps of meat to come back to you. Your kindness truly knows no bounds ( as do your shadows, of course. )

Yet as a pig with red lipstick will remain a beast, they are nothing but bags of water and viscera, alone in their foul-smelling little rooms, frantic, because they have no real power in their short, utterly meaningless lives. As swine root in the mud, straining their blind necks upward, hoping to catch a star in their filthy teeth. Creatures of the past who possess the courage of worms and the intellect of rock, without even the comprehension that one may make a butcher’s yard of their flesh, and you will not bat any of your pretty eyelashes.

But why should you or I dirty our hands, my dearest ? For those without a light of their own, ignorant to the order of the world, indifference is best reserved for them, yes ?

Yours truly,