The wolf hunts you
with lust like a
bone-handled
knife.

Sniffing out the

rot

in your soul.

​

       The rage broils under the skin. You’re a whore, good for nothing but blinded wine and cigarette scars. So he takes the knife, and the slit he makes above your womb drains you like a spittlebug.

       Lucifer makes a bloody cocoon of your viscera, hangnail and intestine, and in pupae of sin and regret, you gestate hell-hung into a monstress. Maiden. Monster. Crone. You never got to be mother, Sophia of the Ill-Abortion, just another childless Millennial with an empty uterus.

 

       What good are you?

       The barrenness, it weeps. He kisses your screams as you emerge as a black-brained harpy, soothing your sorrow with his talons pluck-fucking your feathers. You stab him back with your teeth, hungry.

​

       Sharp. Sharp as his beauty. You ruin him. You make the Covering Cherub un-beautiful. Sit on his throne and use his skin as your robe. Now he is hell pupae. Now he hangs from the ceiling in a womb of his own black wing, black pubic hair, vomit and sweat and shit and sulphur.

 

       You take his candle sword, illuminated blue black flame, wear Lucifer as a dress, Queen of Hell, and take his private road to Heaven, where he hatefucks Jesus on Sundays. You come to his Lover’s bedroom, where Yesh and the Magdalene are rolling around in a bed of roses and green finger-stains.

       You behead the Bride and Bridegroom. Holy Prepuce on your thumb, a ring of Madonna Lilies. You eat the violets of Mary, and you drink down the Eucharist of her menses and His side.

 

       And then, you are G-d. And then, you destroy the Universe.

       And it is just Maiden-Monster-Crone.

       It is just you, Hell Whore

       Thank G-dess.

​