I know what you did and it has a name.
It spits on my wounds and whispers beneath my skin.
Nails bloodied, pupils rolling.
I know how much my flesh is worth to you, pound for gram.
That there is no one to mourn if there is nothing left to mourn.
A piece of me here, a piece of me there, I scramble to collect my spilling intestines.
Pulling at loose ends as they squelch & stretch under boot & heel.
No eyes within me left to see how you carved me up for Sunday brunch.
Fingers turn to stumps as I crawl toward the fire
Mouths watering at the scent of my falling from purgatory
You built me for worship so I became your disciple
A ripe sinner ready for plucking.
Oh, won’t you say Grace?
I know what you did, & it has a name.
Oct 21, 2025
Oct 21, 2025 at 9:39 AM UTC
I know what you did and it has a name.
It spits on my wounds and whispers beneath my skin.
Nails bloodied, pupils rolling.
I know how much my flesh is worth to you, pound for gram.
That there is no one to mourn if there is nothing left to mourn.
A piece of me here, a piece of me there, I scramble to collect my spilling intestines.
Pulling at loose ends as they squelch & stretch under boot & heel.
No eyes within me left to see how you carved me up for Sunday brunch.
Fingers turn to stumps as I crawl toward the fire
Mouths watering at the scent of my falling from purgatory
You built me for worship so I became your disciple
A ripe sinner ready for plucking.
Oh, won’t you say Grace?
I know what you did, & it has a name.
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