A cathedral rests beneath my skin.
Nestled in the spaces between brittle ribs,
Held together by sinew and virtuous love.
These hallowed bones creak and groan
Under the weight of my devotion.

My knees dig into my lungs
As I kneel at the edge of the pew.
Reverent whispers are pulled from my lips,
spilled out in frenzied, wild streams.
They scorch my tongue and crack my teeth.

And he stands at the altar
As it crushes my heart,
Spitting his scripture with righteous conviction,
And confusing my blood for holy water.
He does not stop, even as the columns fall—
Even as my chest collapses in on itself.

And as I lay there,
Trapped beneath my faith and flesh and sin,
haloed in that vermilion holy water,
I know that I am saved.

I was born to the Ocean.
My blood melted and mingled with the sea water,
My tears were lost somewhere in the salt spray.
The raging wind forced breath into my chest
And carried away my cries.
I was carefully veiled in seafoam,
And She cradled me there,
Rocking me gently on Her waves.

She pulled me from the inky depths,
Sculpted me from Her blood, Her bones.
She held Her arms outstretched to the stars,
And pulled moonbeams from the sky.
She is divinity, and when She pieced me together,
Laying my heart below my ribs, below my flesh,
I, too, was made pure.

I was raised by the tides,
And followed the currents in their frantic twisting dance
I yearned for Her vastness,
Envied and revered and feared Her in equal measure.
Her power and elegance were all-consuming, And hence I worshiped Her—loved Her—
And surrendered, to Her, every bit of myself.

So **** the brine from my marrow,
And drain the churning water from my veins.
Pull the fierce winds from my lungs,
And break my crooked fingers,
Weathered and roped in scars.
Pluck my eyes that have seen Her depths,
And burn away the salt clinging to my skin.
Twist my ribs, tear out my wicked heart,
Plunder and despoil and lay waste to my very soul.

She will embrace me, grotesque as I am,
And deliver me from my weariness.

The fruit has gone bad.
The skin is puckered, scabbed, festering.
It sinks in on itself,
And flies have begun to swarm.

I dig my fingers into its soft flesh,
And the maggots writhe and twist beneath them.
The fruit weeps—
sickly sweet juices run down my aching hands,
Tracing the tangle of veins beneath my skin.
It drips to the floor and pools at my feet.

I am drunk on the scent of rot.
Dionysian madness fills the air,
Pungent and dizzying and so thick
That I may suffocate in it.

But I cannot stop my hands
As they bury themselves deeper and deeper.
The nectar stains my skin,
And I lose sight of where I end
And the fruit begins.

As I pull its meat apart,
the seeds stare up at me,
And I gently, methodically pluck them
From the viscera,
And let them fall to the ground.

What does the albatross think
When it departs for that endless blue?
When it casts its gaze toward the waves,
And opens its arms to the wind?

Do its thoughts wander back to the shores?
Does it miss the scent of earth warmed by sun?
Does the soft pull of the familiar
Sit like an ache beneath its feathers?

Does it ever consider retracing its path
To the speck of green left behind?
Where its own eggshells litter the soil,
Where the grass sways ever so gently?

Perhaps such thoughts are muffled
By the swift thrumming of its heart,
By the restless beat of wings.
Perhaps the albatross does not look back.