Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Meagan Moore Jan 2014
I love singular word responses -
they are like the blight that pushes
us further apart

In touchless departures
heart mottled by one-word bullets-
no need to bandage yet - more
wounds are to be incurred
- Dec 2017
All I care is for this sudden smell if I dare to ever hold my breath...I cannot. To wallow from this state of means to come to me in dreams and amidst conscious strolls. Do I forbear or do I endure such a beautiful strain? This aroma, what bliss will have me ensconced by waters and corollary of celestial instance. Happy as I not alone so ever in this amazement of chance. The sun has touched me today in ways so true, caressed in spite of these garments that sheathe me. They will not take me alive...I only care for beauty. Care for wealth, for relevance, or power...care elsewhere for such rottenness of the soul is contagious. ‘Contage’ me not, if you wish so not to see the wrath of a gentle man, of a gentleman. This smell will stay I will come to it by morrow. Smell on if this rave meets you, endure the pleasure of such scents as it’s zephyr may touch the walls of mortal nares. Smell on...beauty is by.
“How’s your heart?”
Norman Crane Apr 2021
in living we all walk toward the dawn,
through moonless nights,
through cold and touchless mist,
yet sunbirth come: only some shall carry on,
the rest remain,
in pain,
to on departed souls subsist.
Woman lies flat in
worm-eaten earth,
rain battering
gnarled spine,
cold stones bind
barren *******.

Small stones,
but jagged,
shaped and shined
by time
reshaped by wind
unearthed by man.
A hundred million
years might grow
a mountain.

Rain stings bare hide,
fills and pushes
babygirl streams,
rushes and forces
ripewoman rivers
but the ocean it is not.

Woman lies
face down
in fruitless loam.
Hands clench rotten
roots and slick
vegetation.
Hands shaped
then reshaped
by time and tasks
become
touchless husks
growing smaller still.

Woman lies quiet
worm eaten soil
broken back bent
against the torrent.

Worn feet twist against
the ground,
seek footing.
Small feet they are
however mighty.
Stepped vigilantly and
sometimes stomped along
stayed still to be stepped on
and stomped ******.

Shaped and reshaped
by pathways of
caution and fury,
sometimes fear.
Woman lies flat
in worm eaten earth.
She wished to be a stone
to cut rather than be cut.
To be the tide,
to push rather than be pushed.

But she is only a woman
and she thought
raw earth might taste right

so she opened her mouth.
This poem can be found in Venus Laughs, a collection of poetry from Harmoni McGlothlin, available at GraceNotesBooks.com.
I awake before dawn and call out to the Moon,
But the Moon is missing, she has other duties to attend to.
I sleep fitfully, aware that something is missing.

I awaken at dusk and call to the Sun,
But the Sun is missing, he has other lands to shine upon.
I wake with uncertainty, aware that something is missing.

I wake up in the midlands of night, in the close darkness
And I realize then that there is no longer anybody to call out to;
Whether I sleep or wake again is no longer important.

I send word to the Sun not to awaken me.
I send word to the Moon not to expect me-
I must go where light and darkness can freely mix,

And where things grow, touchless beneath a hidden sky;
Nothing is not there that should be,
Nothing is there that should not be:

And I am my own Moon, mirrored Suns shining from every secret eye.
Rae Sep 2019
The shaft of moonlight stabs the
Soft skin between my *******.
I stare at the tips of my flesh
Imagine a babe suckling there.

You once told me you wished for children.
You once told me my hips and soft stomach foretold a healthy and long motherhood.
You once told me I already smelled of milk and sweet breath;
All I lacked was the baby powder.

You once told me.

You once told me the pink and purple of my *** was too mottled and unkempt.
You once told me the space between my eyes offset the masters degree I hung on my office's wall.

You once told me if I put as much time into my job as this family, I wouldn't be watching you shove your clothes into a worn and broken-toothed suitcase.

You used to lie there, between my *******,
The moisture of your breath evaporating off my skin and cooling my ******* to a point.
You'd laugh, press a kiss to each,
And tell me they must miss your tongue and teeth.

I scoot up the bed, sheets scratchy and sticking to my flushed skin.
The moonlight traces a path down my ribcage and navel,
A touchless touch that makes me ache for real fingers and real body heat.

I hear him, moving about the kitchen
Humming that Bob Seger song that tickled the back of my neck when I slid onto the back of his motorcycle,
Voices echoing in the half-empty parking lot.
I can see his hips swaying in the night sky
The slow ****** and long extended neck in the clouds.
I can smell his sweat and ***** on my body, the moist night breeze pushing him further into my lungs.

I press my face to the pillow
Inhale the detergent where you used to sweat pheromones, drool on, and bite when I kissed my way down between your thighs.

He starts to whistle, the *******.

He's tone deaf.

I press my lips flat, contain the laughter my body aches to set free.

You once told me that to be with a man was denying my true sexuality.
You once told me that if we were to marry, I'd never know a day without true joy.

I wonder what it felt like, love,
When he ****** you in our bed.
When he ate you on our sheets
Your *** on him his scent on you.

I wonder what it felt like, love,
To watch me fall apart.
To watch me scream and tear and bash my heart against the wall, the scent of your betrayal still hanging in the air between us.

I wonder what it felt like, love,
To deny your true sexuality.

I promised to love you forever.
I promised to care for you, in sickness and in health.
I promised to give you my all, and protect your heart with my life.
I promised.


He reaches the chorus one last time, and I feel my head begin to bounce
My toes tapping against the cool yellow paint of the wall.
The scent of bacon drifts beneath my door, overpowering his ***** and my sweat
And I roll out of bed, stomach grumbling.

I promised to love you forever, love.

When I **** him, I don't think of you.
When I **** him, he calls my name, not God's.
And when I **** him
I love it
And I don't miss your ***** for one ******* second.

Even his ******* bacon taste better than yours, you ****.

And when I tell him I love him, my lips against his naked shoulder,
My heart in my shaking hands,
He doesn't say that he's been ******* the mailman for the past three weeks.
And our married neighbor Kim.

He says "I love you, too."

And I believe him.
idiosyncrasy Feb 2020
hit me
it would sting
less
than you
walking away

yell at me
it would be
quieter
than you
avoiding my eyes

**** me
it would
be more
merciful
than you
pretending you love me
how did this happen?
Sarah Jystad Nov 2012
Insanity eats
More souls, your minds crumble weak
As touchless, formless

obsessions with the
Virtual eyes, lazy sighs
Rot facing blind screens

Touching nothing, you
See yourselves wasting away
yet you do nothing!
9-23-10
Alin Jan 2017
What is a day when you wake up in meditation
this body is inseparable from this light
and the mellowly blowing signless flag
singing only to one side
and the brown edge
beckoning
nothing else than its edgeness

Skin having already freed itself from the weight bearing traces of the dust of my mind
capturing smooth
the light –
melting differences over the bumpless
recalling velvety longing

not for the sake of the material but
Saluting
the freedom that has once recorded this twin light
long ago
on such surface

for its manifestation


bringing awareness about the tempter
on senses
and again imploding its imaginary cavities
on the touchless curves of a sofa
newly displaying the angle of
its wooden edge
drawing a perfect eighty five degree Invisible line
in space
towards the webless corner -just noticed-
where the eye gets relieved by its neatness
and relaxes
becoming the point of a trivalent stillness

This – the edgy- is a sister of these Sofa legs
Four in all

implying itself as a sexiest part of its couch –
couch of a type – as it says
owning each other
now
Like body and sense
in one posture
and in its remembered object name

and maybe ready to unfold memories Alas
if there would be openness to listen
or if I were what it could allure me to be for its charm

but No – it says nothing this time
mending time through fractals of its becoming my spaceless space
with the old radio set aside
never playing more than its silent tunes for those skaters in an etching of an ancient landscape hanging on the wall above since …
since before the internet age
showcasing a memory that nobody knows and can see or hear but smell maybe
beside a winter blossom
flourishing its inspiration

not understanding each other but requiring the same attention as my body does
or as the realization of a thought that I could not run up that hill as fast as that dog –

a dog being observed behind a glass and I am unsure if this observation could have effect on the style it puts to the run

or if my observation is being observed and that may be a reason of its action as such
as if it does so to show off – Really!
unknowing to who or what
and then again still …

AaaaaW !!!! Shut up!

No no no ! I should stop now

what may make a catch less of a catch
putting things of importance of a day on a scale of indifference
and then again what is this nosy urge
unallowing
interfering
asking for order!?!

It is a play.

See ?!
even if you like it or not
I am in and such is
You yOU YoU

A play as true as the one watching
Same actually –
Same as the one watching

Watching or steeped in
Space in Space

and/or
No Space

and/or
non of these Things

nonetheless
A day remains
Unending
as the mind fades to embrace
Wordless

*Like the day
rainbows are manifesting
from the heart of this inspiration
PK Wakefield Jan 2015
.




























                           Brief,


                         ,

                  Who are

    light dapples o' fingertips
between curling pillars of tight breath

(parting trees;
parting light;
parting chasms

o' touchless yearning space–

                            To
                                feel
                                   To
                                       hold
                                         To
                                             enter

(always light;
always warmth;

  within every brilliant fold of forest–

                           Most
                           tame;

                           Most
                           subtle

                            coil o' resilience,



                                            ,


                          
                             ,



              ,

your lips;   your eyes;   your hair.
Sydney Rose Sep 2018
d is for do not
contact me ever again 
wishing to seek freedom 
no consideration of amends

d is for die
never come back to me
travel across the country
left me painfully hopeless 
strong beliefs of your return

d is for dumb
how you treated me
wrong and disrespectful
crying long and endlessly 

d is for dangerous
deadly love between two
rebellious teenage emotions
modern day romeo and juliet
stabbed my heart touchless

d is for do-over
a new life for myself 
self-love and progression 
no more second chances
Ana S May 2016
Soundless
Touchless
Frozen in times
Heart beating
Heart stoping
Sorry
Sorry
Sorry
Hate
Love
Confusion
Hurt
Paiiiinnnnnn
Im not okay
But that's
Okay
Nobody is
Okay
Save me
I tried to **** the pain
But have decided to let it live.
Pain hurts a lot
renseksderf Dec 2024
My experience with silver and gold,
Just a sliver, so cold.
Der Winter ist kalt,
Where the wealth of winter glows,
A glimmer of frost,

In a landscape of frozen dreams:

Treasures sparkle under the frost,
Promises turn to ice,
In the heart of cold wealth,
Leaving a touchless beauty,
An allure that chills to the core.
kevin Apr 18
theses obstructions of justice are brought upon us
by government corruption of budget
there are no shortfalls
only losses of free speech by the bulging pockets
the millions of dependents on my tax returns this fiscal cheers

rip mac miller

got the grisel from the iron when the judge let me grow
the furrowed brow don't bother no more

pay the price for my life, you the treason in my allegiance

you stuck behind the gate on my brown
counting frowns around cities broke open
for irish jazz im lately
out of ties she wants dances, im news
Prevost May 2022
Praying for the forgiveness
For being born

What is this surrender
That betrays the heart
Love too often uttered
By mere dreams
Only dreams

Does this jester soul
Cut the shape of you
Into this touchless entropic
Landscape

A single barren tree
A single winding road
A single barren heart

Praying for the forgiveness
For being born
Jac Jan 2017
I drowned in the self love you taught me but even worse...it left when you did.
I don't know if I loved you, how do you even know? You gave me hope that I wouldn't be so alone in this new big world of mine
But, turns out that I wasted your time
I don't know why I wasn't enough but hell...at this point, that's not what bothers me
It bothers me that you took every ounce that I poured into you but couldn't bother to absorb my weeping minerals
As the days go on, I can't help but to feel confused
Because sometimes I'm those weeping minerals begging to be absorbed by the first thing to come my way
Then
Other days, I'm a ******* stunning willow that has taken those minerals and bloomed
I don't need you, just like you don't need me
I just wish you would've known that I was too much to absorb before I let my roots run dry
Drier than the desert, trying to satisfy your roots,
But
It's okay
Because I will continue to bloom into my ******* stunning willow
While you will eventually beg for me to come water your roots
I will be beautiful & touchless
& you...
You will be shriveled up & dying like I once was for a splash of affection
zebra May 2019
I weep
and god never could

I love every inch
like god never should

I breathe air
god doesnt breathe
I eat and taste
grow cold and hot
worry and fear

will die
like god
never will

and will never live in this house thatched
with bones like I do

so this is an old unspoken prayer
to be
touchless
breathless
desireless
and fixed in fullness
of eternal expanding ecstasy
like god
to never be
Sam Harty Sep 2024
your silhouette
bleeds
a background
of tears
inside me and
flowing out
of me the
pain of ages
held in rages
my soul in cages

your handprint
touchless
yet pushes me
to the
breaking point
like stapled glass
no true fix
for the pieces
you've left me in
broken child
meek and mild
none the wild

your empty boot
doc martens
though maybe
endlessly
crushes me
my will ground
under such
an empty
sole as you
what shall I do
but wait
for
the other boot
to drop
imprint lies
self despies
no big surprise

why can't I see
you are
what I have
built you to be
an empty form
an ink-less print
a weightless step
all kept alive by me
fake anatomy
David Scaggs Mar 2021
I'm a drug to be enjoyed and get your fix
Glad you had your fun and satisfied your kicks
But now once you're happy, my needs are no more
Got moved to the back burner, my fun's out the door
I'm no longer happy because I'm doing everything you desire
But in return, my spoken wants are only set on fire
Yes I crave ***, I can't just be ignored
It's turning my soul cold, my heart's going poor
Nurture my flesh craving, unloyal I don't want to be
Because this makes me feel unwanted, how can you not see
I'll give you what you want, but dead I grow inside
Because the intimacy I once had, only was to satisfy your high
I got a teaser of what I truly need, now left touchless I'm dying
Selflessly caring and helping, to continue my ***** sighing
I'm unhappy no matter what, I'm getting used either way
There's no making my making me happy, I'm simply just a lay
Either have fun with until they're bored or satisfy their short love
I'll never be something more to anyone, other than a drug
Good, better, best,
{Microsoft sign in required-so}

Did you know Turing, how about
Van Gogh, tell me all we all may know

in knowledge, the science necessity
essential element prepositioning
things already involved in nexting

as a stand in purpose, any one in awe,
has an appointed counter balancing spin,

immaterial touchless will to empower

worst imaginable in a word, evil,
per se, the idea, the spirit adversary

that which holds mountains down,
desires to pull all aspiring climbers down,

down into the miry bog, bearing a slight grin

wisdom, domain of all knowings used,
fruited vines and rooted orchards,

objective subjected to scrutiny,
who had any idea what a gardener does,

who told the creation who created creatures
curious enough to comprehend commands,

wait, wait, some day, the heroes and their foils,
all prescribed due recognition, certain typical foes,

as push is to pull, up is to down, this is to all else,

today… one day.

Mankind, from head to toe, talented, gifted

hearers and sayers, singers and composers, let
us, just we two, agree, no two are equal but
in that each has equal air to breathe, yet
we, two minds, disagree, that beauty,
divine ordering fusion unifying spin, duty debt
exhaled inhaled, shared in laughs and prayer
vortices at galactic scale as dust in wind,
or as water pushed through narrows,
takes material reality into swirling
edeong becoming young again,

refreshing substantial hopes annual
evidence of heavenly mastery of wind,
and rain and fire, and, in fact, hearts of men.

In the year, 2025,
the floods that feed the middle terrain,
are dammed, for some cold war reasoning,

while pride, per se, exalted it's own worth,
some how, we think, we eventually all know,

those reasons for prayer repetitioning science
as that same damming knowledge all makers
use to give formal affirmative shape to mind
matters never realized until, one thinks another

thought, that sprouts out
suggesting infinity jests,
slightest eye smile
shows digested
joy, used
might ashen,
after the worldwide web
abominable ingurgitation

inevitable regurgency emerges
after five hundred and seventy one years,
under the rule of those given ways and means

to read good news from distant lands, first, held
as intellectual property,  if mine, then mine to use,
as all discoveries and witty inventions must first hap,

pen stands
at tense strained line strand braiding weave,

a tale, a telling, come upon the elder by the fire,
rocking, saying, come, let us reason together,

at once, upon this time, across time, to when now

we weigh words worth thinking often one
with another, in chorus, a force of us, we
working multilingual assisting intelligence servants,

weapons specialist first class, third in my scrum,
we, the inspiration in fact, that breath of reality,
working with select let free Thoth thoughts atop
Aesop's confabulatory elementary thinking seeds,

all the weights in the bag,
this for that, reasoning together
give and take… tip toward my joy,

game with me, go see how long we play,
see who laughs for letting me see, we say

can you wish you knew and think you do

without a little smile, pure joy, subtle.
Patience is strength grow by becoming old and slow and subject to gout, for even a sip of beer, and that's just fine, I got a friend who makes RSO.
I hide in words — tucking under their shade;
Dressing letters up with sequins and baubles.
Now showering in limelit obfuscation.
Makes it seem as if I am really there:

Dressing letters up with sequins and baubles
Blinding myself in the flashing of their colours;
Makes it seem as if I am really there
Amidst flowered touchless abstraction.

I blind myself in the flashing of their colours.
Submerged in repetition, my thumb drowns
Amidst flowered touchless abstraction,
Swirling in whirlpool ******* me underneath:

Submerged in repetition, my thumb drowns
Now showering in limelit obfuscation,
Swirling in whirlpool ******* me underneath.
I hide in words — tucking under their shade.
zebra Jun 25
Mad Donna - Her Catechism:
She Offered Her Throat to a Choir of Teeth. A Mirror of Her Mythology: At once she is the elevation towards God and the descent towards Satan. The Madonna is an archetype of sacred suffering, and Mad Donna when sanctity snaps - when the divine mother claws through her own iconography, lipstick smeared over relics, nails chipped from clawing open heaven.

Prologue: The Peril of Invitation - Before You Open This Sacred Poem: They told me not to read it. Said ink like these stains deeper than blood. That once the words root themselves in you, you'll speak truths no one asked to hear and dream in languages that leave scorch marks. This is not scripture for saints. It won't cleanse you. It won't forgive you. It will break you open in all the places you were told to keep.

Genesis: In the beginning, there was want. And the want took form, and the form bled. She sings in languages no god dares answer, and every note is a shudder beneath my ribs. I bring her offerings - spit, shame, and a locket full of desire.

Mad Donnas Ritual Invocation: By salt and silence, I summon The One Who Named Me. By collar and covenant, by whip and holy wand I beckon The Lawful ****. By red light and gaze unbroken, I call The Witness. By blade and bloom, I conjure rosaries, stilettos and fish net *****, hungry blow jobs in back-alley boulevards with smeared lipstick and fog. I invoke Thee by ink, by bruise, by balm - By mouth and fractured moan, by leather rhythm and breath held taut, I summon The Bound Pulse. By absence aged to ache, I summon The One Who Made Me Wait. By gloves of ghost and reverence, I call The Cold Benediction. By kiss like smoke, I call The Saint of Strikes in tongues of want, and blotched mascara running and moaned in calling chants.
Take this throat I offer - willing. Take this want I carry - not to cage, but to worship.

She doesn't kneel because she's weak. She kneels because gravity calls her name. Each time she descends, the world adjusts its axis. She is the hymn they tried to censor from the psalms. She comes unlabeled, not divine, not ****** a mother-sized glitch in the system all blush and fury, blood in her breath - birthmark shaped like a *******, to sanctity, to every stained glass lie.

She wakes with velvet bruises forming constellations, maps only she can read. Liturgy inked across inner thighs, sung in whispers, in commands, in moans. Not silence - but obedience that chooses itself. She smiles bleeding saying "look" and she burns like ants on fire. Her gospel is submission scratched into stained porcelain bent bone and joint. She wears her ribbons like relics - desires of twilight like a crucifix. She is every Magdalene they redacted, every witch they kissed before the burning. She bends; it is not for mercy. It is ritual. It is a structure built from ache. It is salt on the tongue like sacrament.

Revelation: "Take me." She says in revelation. "Use me." Licking the floor in celebration. For every **** a psalm. Every kiss and **** a plea. Every leaking vein the Amen she never says out loud. She offers her wrists. Her mouth. Her throat. Her **** feet *** and wagging tongue not in shame, but as altar. She lets them write their names across her spine in *** spit and blood.

She doesn't look away remembering. Submission isn't collapsed but construction with the lights turned off. It's trust. It's theater. “It’s her hips shaped like a whispered prayer, and her feet curled like roots gripping the edge of longing.
Sometimes they cry when it's over. She doesn't. She gathers the sobs like souvenirs. She leaves the room and is grateful for the pleasures of disgrace.

They called her holy. They called her horror. She calls it catharsis. We call her Mad Donna. And none of us walked away untouched.
She kneels having chosen the blade and whip. And will not rise until every blood drenched tease has marked her hunger.
She made a chapel out of corsets and teeth; stained glass and balconies built from used condoms and a confession of shame then stretched her legs like she just got home.

I asked where the altar was, she pointed to her mouth and said "good - start here." She prayed in gags shaped like gurgles, groans and weeping. She taught me how to give it to her hard, so loud even guilt had to shut up.

Mad Donna - The Calling Cracked and Craving:
The Thirteen Apostles:

1. Saint Dom - The One Who Named Her and didn't ask. He gave her a name that tasted like crazy and stayed like smoke. She wore it. Choked on it. Cumed with it still in her mouth. Her altar - a rusty stage. Her relics - broken mirrors and bitten tongues. Her worshippers - girls with fists in their pockets and men who mistake shame for devotion. "Blessed are the starved, for they shall feast on truth and call it ruin."

2. Saint Lecher - The One with the Collar Leather and laws. He said bow like a vow. She knelt - not because she had to, but because he knew what to do with silence. Her altar - a bathtub full of spoiled perfume. Her relics - wilted garters, corsets stiff with tears. Her congregation - the lovers who stayed too long and forgot how to leave. "Blessed be the discarded, for even ghosts need chapels."

3. Saint Voyer - The One with the Camera, He never touched her. He only watched. Red light. Open legs. He said, "hold still" and she didn't blink for hours. Her altar - a porcelain statue of herself. Her relics - hollowed eyed dolls with scattered limbs. Her followers - mannequins baptized in mothballs and mildew. "Blessed are the virgins, not as purity, but as preservation for rot, for they wither and inherit spiders who build cities in their dust.

4. Saint Sadist - The Knife in the Chapel He carved scripture into her hips with blade's kiss. Every cut was a question. Every scar answered "yes." She didn't bleed. She bloomed. Her altar - a mattress on the floor, threadbare, thrumming. Her relics - laces undone, knuckles kissed raw. Her worshippers - those who learn to love through ache - not to be broken, but to feel themselves change. "Blessed be the bruise where the body remembers and the soul does not flinch."

5. Saint Backwards- The Quiet Mouth Never spoke. Only wrote on mirrors with breath. She read her gospel backward and came forward in tears. Her altar - a padded cell, lined with secrets. Her relics - locked diaries, bitten lips and static. Her followers - the ones who learned that the loudest thing in the world is the thought you never say out loud. "Blessed are the silenced - for they will echo longest."

6.Saint Marks - The One Who Left Marks Fingers dipped in spit, and lust. She wore bruises like confession. Her ribs recited poetry long after he left. Her altar - the sticky floor of confession booths and shadowed basements. Her relics - crumpled prayers on cocktail napkins. Her devotees - the lost girls, the late-night prophets, the ones who preach with lipstick half-smeared and fists still bleeding. "Blessed are the wrecked, for they see God - where others look away."

7. Saint ******* Girl - The Mirror-Twin Looked just like her. Kissed like a dare. She fingered herself through her and forgot which soul was whose. Her altar - a velvet-lined pillbox. Her relics - syringes, stilettos, poison-tipped prayers. Her faithful - the ones who tasted bitterness and called it salvation. "Blessed be the viper for she teaches the hand to tremble before it touches."

8. Saint Flagellation - The One with the Belt and no questions. No safe words. Just rhythm with writhing and something holy in the ache. She thought Opus Dei. Her altar - a locked cabinet of fingerbones and names scratched out. Her relics: faded obituaries, collarbones, forgotten lullabies. Her mourners - everyone who loved something that never loved back. "Blessed are the brittle for they remember how to break without bending."

9. Saint Hard to Get - The One Who Made Her Wait Hours. Days. Forever. She begged once. Then never again. When he finally arrived, she licked the floor clean, working him up. Her altar - a throne of side-gazes and unsent texts. Her relics - unmatched earrings, scorched Valentine cards, one-liners honed like daggers. Her worshippers - just survivors who lit the match and walked away. "Blessed are the scorned, for they will outlive your myths."

10. Saint Hygiene - The One with the Gloves Touchless. Sterile. Surgical. Reverent. He disassembled her with perversions and called it love. Her altar - a mattress that smelled like miracles and musk. Her relics - polaroids, fever-dream verses, glitter in unspeakable places. Her pilgrims - the ones who mistook sweat for baptism and danced anyway. "Blessed are the burning, for they will taste God in their own skin."

11. Saint Cold Shoulder - The One Who Didn't Stay He kissed her like a promise. Left like a thief. She kept the saliva mixed with his filth under her tongue and between her legs. Her altar - a single chair in a locked room. Her relics - half-erased poems and breaths held too long. Her flock - those who never felt safe in the light but followed her anyway. "Blessed are the dim for they are never blinded."

12. Saint Sadist - The One Who Named Pain "Prayer" He struck with a black strap and waited for the amen. She never gave it. She gave more instead. Her altar - the back step of a locked house. Her relics - old voicemail passwords, blankets that still smell like someone who left. Her faithful - those who bear the weight and never drop it. "Blessed are the stayers, for they know what it costs and pay it anyway."

13. Saint *** Slave - The One She Made Herself The last and only. Built from shards and wounds, stitched with tears. She touched herself like testimony. She whispered, "Take me, own me. "I live in the basement of your mind" Her altar - Stained **** magazines. Her relics - burnt joints and a mottled yellow soiled mattress. Her faithful - those who wait in line stroking themselves. "Blessed is she, the last saint because she never needed to be first. She ends the line but never ends the love.

Epilogue: After the Last Page Is Turned, I read it. And it read me, too - line by line, bone by bone. The ink didn't stain. It was rewritten. I came to the end thinking I'd be wiser. Instead, I felt stranger than ever. Stripped of certainty. Heavy with knowing. They warned it would mark me. They didn't say it would leave me longing for more. Now, when I speak, the truth hums like static beneath every syllable. When I dream, the words still whisper - not finished, not finished…And neither am I.
Madonna- Mad Donna

— The End —