H.Y

This is a form of self-destruction.
I'm self-mutilating just by being around you.
You're holding the stake but its my white-knuckled fist around your grip that is driving it under my skin.

Do I wish to pull it out so that my wound might close, or do I hope to hit a nerve and let the numbness wash over the gaping gash - a cooling liquid spread of milky ignorance...?

It's a mock-exorcism - as though somehow your crudely carved crucifix might just be the detox of demons that I need. How ironic that you are a demon yourself.

Where did you get that crucifix?

How have you created this illusion and made me believe you to be a saviour, when you are no more pure or godly than the soulless mortals of the underworld.

I'm confusing my theology. Look what we've done to me.