If you get close enough, you’ll smell my masturbation mixed with sandalwood.
You’ll smell years of regret and sweetness in the cracks.
If you get close enough, I’ll leave and separate the view you have of me and eat it.
I don’t know what I’m doing anymore, it feels like living,
but it fell from somewhere else.
I am decapitated and screaming, I am bloodless/aching,
But mostly, I am ceremony.
Hear me pray your thoughts back to communion.
I’m not even Catholic, but I feel the two thousand years of ruination of what should’ve been a simple book of funny explanations.
You’re only here and gone, what’s in-between is…
—it belongs to all the things you’ve bought.
Your gaping mouth.
Your worth in clothes and sex.
No one will remember your pussy if they can’t even remember your name.
I say this lovingly because you are a sacrifice.
A smile stretched out,
no one is pink when they’re held by the throat.
No one perspires by candlelight, they melt.
No one burns in urgency, they thaw in rest.
Escape into mediocrity.