The bookshelves around the television sound like ancient mothers telling their stories through yellowed, crinkled pages of spells and the angels give guidance
through the cards while they display their faces to the room, quietly pleading and waiting for you to read them.
Hear what they have to say,
whisper through your ears and listen through your mouth, the angels are speaking dear.
Pray if you must, and the Gods have blessed the birdcage to open and release the iced ****** Mary that has slept away her winter cold.
She stands tall, with grace and without shame of her ****-ness and she looks at you.
Her mouth opens to speak, but it sounds like space.
She’s shocked and squeezes her hand down her throat to pull the phrase out.
Her hand comes up and a lily petal lays soft in saliva.
She looks to you again, and when your eyes meet,
She chokes and gags.
Stumbles to her knees, the ****** Mary spews up lily petals now.
Your throat is burned from bile climbing up.
a faint smell of lily flowers and you blink.
You are on your knees, skin cold without cloth, and you try to shout “help, let me out!”
But the only thing that comes from your mouth is lily petal after lily petal.
A card slides in front of you, number III of Swords.
'Dear Mary, climb back to your cage and you are safe in there. No wretch may touch you with heartbreak and reject, come home Dear Mary,
It is you whom i select.'