You came to me cadaver-pale, with chapel-veins displayed, a reliquary of bruises where prior lovers prayed; their fingers left like rusted nails impressed beneath your skin, cathedral-blue contusions where their little wars had been.
I watched you through the candelabra’s septic, saffron glow, your silence like a sepulcher embalmed in winter snow; and every tremor in your throat became a sacred toll, a black funereal vesper rung inside my starving soul.
O darling, I would drink your grief from ivory-cracked bone, would salt the wounds with sacrament and claim them as my own; I’d split my chest like slaughtered swine on pyres crowned with pitch, and stitch your name through every rib with necromantic stitch.
For love, to lesser men, is silk - effeminate and slight - but mine’s a butcher’s liturgy performed by torch at night; a feral eucharist of teeth, of marrow, ash, and wine, where I unmake your former gods so you remain as mine.
I’d hang your sorrows in the crypt like flayed baptismal lace, and kiss the clotted copper from the corners of your face; your weeping would become the oil with which I mark the floor, a crimson chrism thick enough to flood the chapel door.
The choir would retch their psalms in tongues as churchbells split apart, while I, knee-deep in viscera, would consecrate your heart; not gently - no, but rabidly, devout, as starving wolves consume the lamb while snowstorms drown their shout.
I want to crawl beneath your flesh where all your horrors breed, to nest among the ruptured nerves and feed upon their need; to gnaw the blackened rot away with blood-wet animal grace, till every phantom lover’s touch is scraped without a trace.
And if your past still claws at you with carrion-breathing teeth, I’d drag it to the abbatoir that yawns beneath my heath; there, beneath the swinging censers vomiting myrrh and smoke, I’d crack its spine on marble steps until the altar broke.
Then, crowned in steaming entrails like a tyrant-king obscene, I’d lift your trembling body high before that ghastly scene; not as a victim offered up - no, never merely that - but as the darkened empress of the ruins we became.
For I do not desire your love in pallid, mortal part; I want the wet apocalypse still twitching in your heart.
I want your nightmares gargled raw between my hungry jaws, your pulse beneath my tongue like some infernal holy cause.
And should the angels blanch in fear to see how deep I fell, I’d build for you a velvet throne in the spinal crypts of Hell; where, wrapped in flensing shadows underneath a gore-black sky, you’d finally understand a love so vast it had to die.
snowghoul
andulkaphoto
romaincrisis
sugurugetos
theartofmadeline
prguitarman
gummygunk
pixelskylines
