Vodka Soda
Flexing thew cut open; sinew spilling to the floor in hot clumps. Ichor the color of red wine on glass panes.
Church is not the place for a king’s fall from grace, right? Shining slits of epidermis, bright hazel eyes.
Who has nailed you to your wooden bearings?
You are ostentatious. You are flowery. You are gaudy Christmas sweaters and electro-glitter on the sticky floor of gay clubs in Boston. You are silver and gold staining a bare, filthy mattress.
You are a collection of fatty tissue and collagen and eggshell bone. Splintered fine china.
You are in an empty, desolate, oxidized frat-boy house. You down four cups of jungle juice in two minutes and you feel nothing.
You are Christ’s daughter. You are God’s son.
The claws of something viscous and molten-hot and fierce sink into your fleshy back and rip open your spine. Now there’s space for angel wings.
Who are you without your deities? Who is your God? Beelzebub makes you ask too many questions.
There’s blood on your sweater, and it stains like a bitch. Passionfruits and pomegranates rot in the leaves of their saplings. Take a bite and feel the pink lemonade drip down your chin.
There’s nothing like committing sin in the middle of fall.