My love is biblical, shrined and christened and all the pieces of myself that I could possibly give are etched into a commandment of all-consumption; a promise that if you let me, I will swallow you whole. Stone by stoned-son, a Kronus of gluttony until I am bursting at the seam with all the love I will pool to baptize in. Gardens of Eden I build, all of them fertile in pomegranates Eve’d with broken teeth; heaven does not exist within an inch from the tip of my tongue, do you understand what it means to fucking starve in the midst of ambrosia fields? And I feel closer to God lately, in the way I understand the urge to rip flesh from bone if it meant the hunger would be satiated. Turning blood to wine, hair to confit, the sound of my sobs could break bread and I rip arteries out to feed those begging at my doorstep. We smear red above the walkway, my mouth stained with the veiny tremble of carnality, dripping like mistletoe under the wrathful gaze of a slighted idol; these are hymns for the needy and I am Judas atoning a silvered
moon, wearing our communion noosed around the neck. They hang me and I come crawling from the grave in four more days, a Madonna of wallowing with the rage to raze more than what comes knocking in the morn. My love is biblical, but my yearning is hellish; making men into trinkets, women into Liliths of acrimony, the faithful into pillared salt beneath my temples. But I am no Mary, I bite the hand that dares to feed me, I lick the ivory clean and pick my teeth with the carnage; it’s no coincidence that I only worship on my knees, God’s karma and his too, my martyrdom only worthy if it burns on the way down. There is nowhere I do not haunt, nowhere that does not dip into my juvenescence with gleaning knife to gnash at the hollow of my throat. I serve Mass on Sunday and time on Monday, dipping into the clock and pulling out beaded prayers I let seep in salivated surrender from my nose. The Church becomes me rather than asks of patroned sainthood, shackles against masticated wrists ringing like choir bells, and my persecution will taunt you longer than the love ever could. Our keeper spins fawning locks into strands of gold, promising me Atlas if I sell the sacrament of my body for one last supper. I take it like Christ on a cross; a Magdalene’d vision draped in funeral wear, hands above my head, crimson dripping down my thighs. I am a crucifixion of those who could not hold me, I am gospel for the bitches I have been in this life and the next. My father does not cry at the wake, my God will not mourn. I belong entirely to my own want, to my own greed, my ribs eternally making room for the longing; only this will keep the fire lit longer than my bones will simmer in the dirt.
THE LAST SUPPER
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