Work Text:
I hear the death knells again.
they are scrambling inside me.
They err on my brain’s locus-
all the way to where my eyes end.
Each strike counts my sins,
12, 13, 14 tolls
-14 subtract 1 -13 it was snagged on a blade of grass and my clumsy feet traipsed over it
I was afraid of the pains of hell and dreaded of losing heaven
my kind god who art all good deserves my contrite love,
-16
each strike, I will cross them out.
I’d like to call it consolation? But it’s not consoling, not in the slightest.
Consolation doesn’t precede penance.
kneeling. Kneeling. Kneeling.
The pew is cold and painful.
The glossy wood quickly thaws-
pressed under my sweaty thighs.
I let his face cool me
his cheek is cold and waxy too
he utters the prayer of Absolution
but he holds down my hands
He cannot forgive me.
he has not been forgiven either, I muse.
His face girded by an ugly serpent, contorts. I cannot move. I cannot look anymore.
I don’t want to look.
I’d rather let my retinas burn in fluorescence,
I’d rather slide my knees against his,
and soak him with my sweat.
I’ll let him feel it. I’ll let his hands graze my back. I'll pretend not to notice.
And I’ll sneakily cross my freed hands and utter amen.
in the end. 7 lashes remain to be etched upon my palms
Perhaps they are my own fundamental vices. I’ll carry them for the remainder of my penitence.
But oh
i should have let you
finish me off
i
should
have
let
you
consume
me
and
do what you wanted to do to me.
allow my martyrdom.