Jagged Glass

Short poem for Writer's cramp about narcissism

Do you still sing praises or beg grace of your glass god,
the one who spits his disgust in the mirror
as you brush your deceitful tongue of gin and Jen,
or whatever her name was, the morning after?
Your church-of-one would be laughable
if religion weren't such a dangerous thing.
How many hearts lie bleeding upon your alter,
sacrifices of once sheepish girls,
led to slaughter with blue eyes and lies?