you appear to me far
from the peace of a conch shell closer
to the peace of Tybalt how you hate
the word as you hate hell and how stained glass fears
scrape the flesh from around your fingernails
i mean what i say when i say
if Jesus was a moth he’d rush to burn
up up up upon you but you’d still doubt
his sincerity and sometimes you make me
work too hard to prove that i am
not my nature on your shell i cross
my heart though you wish for me
to forget my faith oh you saint
of self loathing even prayers in your honor
dishonor your name so well i think
you penned them those animals
that won’t be slaughtered or silenced
haunt you as your mother’s tears haunt
the dark marrow of your childhood
home you wander like you have nothing
to do and only no where to carry
the monster of you
i will make you a sun
catcher crystallize your flesh
and bone stain you like no one
else will i will hang on you
like you never managed to hang yourself
watch the light of you explode
on the wall
Burlesque Press 