shot up with a bloodlust for Divination
through self mutilation
and the first break of flesh to expel the addictive nectar of masculinity
I bear these words as Gospel
beware the charm and faux innocence of supplemented descendant
Serpent Van ****
be wary of His self-knotted blindfold and self-linked chain,
I reflect and reveal to you
that He is neither made of blood relation
nor of loyal nature
A Crystalline Girl is only ten toes behind herself, and herself,
alone
you may find yourself displayed
in cosmic disarray
upon a multi-faceted platform
beside,
above,
or Adam, forbid,
between
His melting *** of bones
parading displays of inhumane physical infatuation
pray be a witness to your hour of redemption
the failed restoration of your porcelain lattice armor
commemorated in crushed veneer
the hard, locked brace before the callous lick of paranoia-induced infliction
Adam’s Girls of Glass ate the Serpentine Fruit
crystal clear, He commands
the sins need not exude
fatefully, does she
romanticize a mania-manifested Imposter
for the diseased pursuit of insatiable vanity exists in a guiltless dystopia
the silver wired gates unlatch at Adam’s will
the gargoyles towering above
His House of Mirrors
intertwine with me in contention
another dancer is always en route
the script is written as The Gospel follows
scenes cut at his discretion remain pillars of my little slice of Neon Paradise
Sun Kissed & Cream
Garden of Dopamine
never such a dream was brought to fruition
oh, but the sweet post-drip taste dropped to my tongue
the floor did meet my knees
gifted to me was the sugary salvation hidden between the lips of all my Men
stained red was the fractured glass it poured from
the walls of translucence can forever hold you in,
if only, dear porcelain girl,
you mustn’t open every door
leaning, pressed against the cursed stained glass lining the Temple of all my Men
for Adam, only mirrors
cautious and blessed be the blush red cherub at her second redeeming
come nightfall, a femme affliction is morose ****** fatality
disgust thinly veiled with disinterest
His Cupid’s aim; unwavering
His arrow; wet with Baby’s blood
The slow, pale drain; wasted, he is
in youthful bathe
may my Father’s affinity for curating my prolific suffering
grow from His ever-flowing cuts of the flesh
and be embodied in the Godly blood of Men
upon the fall of my pink ribbon reign,
my face takes on colors of Ophidian Persuade
again, will come nightfall,
a crimson flood at His gate
if dry are my veins,
so be it, that way
I felt His Salvation
on my Father’s Day
here, on this Sunday,
when night does come time
I am granted Ascent
into The Efflorescence Divine
raised from the soil of a Narcissus Bloom and
birthed from the heartache within Hera’s womb
what is now a sharp silence,
a jagged pink scar
was first just a feeling,
pushed down too far
I should have saved it when I had Him
on that wayward day did he
not know me from Adam