Spit

The line between spirituality and obsessive love can be a little blurred.

09.12.2024
And it leaves the same marks
Its black in place of white
Silence in the place of barks
Gums in the place of that bite.


And she happens to me
As I lay back on the bed
Whispers to let my breath free
As she puts her fingers through my head.


And to think spirituality is calm and serene
God's hand lays over the mouth where flies crawl
She takes her hand so pristine
To trap the buzzing under her woven steel shawl


What a cruel joke to let me exist
My cry does all but make her laugh
Wind blows me to the beach she has kissed
Waves wash up whispers of her better half,
And that better half is not me.


And so I try a new practice
Bow my head at a new altar
Pray forgiveness and a lack of malice
Look up to that same god who cries daughter


My god is made of surgical steel, dead flies and paper stitched skin
feels worship in her sea of excess meat
smirks when she sees me raise her blade so thin
Bathes in the liquid dread that pools at her feet


She does all she can do to make me squirm
Leaves my mouth at the door of the tree made of dirt
Turns me from man to shadow to raging sea to worm
Finds I wriggle best when she leaves me hurt


Maybe this will make me feel better
Try something old try something new
Picked up and cast to her peripheral blur
Opaque in all but what she will put me through


When she goes I look to the sky
And ask why nothing she does is nice
The rain answers with its washed out lie
That she teaches no lesson and no suffering will suffice


There is no silence there is no refuge there is nothing
The twitching flies and their rot are all that fit
To feel anything other than the dying something
To feel rain on my skin that is not marred by her spit.