murder

It was I,

splayed out on your altar,

fresh fruit leaves,

sticky with blood,

suctioned to my skin,

with our blood, yours and mine,

my offerings,

my sacrifices,

bleeding out,

all over my spread legs and

pomegranate carcasses,

you arrive with knives,

heartless, mad bastard,

Romeo remembers you,

his antithesis,

man covered in curtains,

false god, false prophet,

and I see her on the other slab,

fertile blossom,

we,

the innocent.

You dig the knives in under our chins,

so we can’t scream.

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