but i’m a martyr for this,
I crave
repercussion;

even self-abnegation
needs an audience
or else it’s just plain masochism
                 lonely and acerbic
without the gentle recompense,
the moist poultice,
the final amends:
the touch of her
sadist’s fingertips
after she laid her.

all cathedrals use pain as payment
and my crucifixion,
while self inflicted;
is just as spilling
brook,
just as baneful.
and my bloodletters will wash
the splashes from my feet,
take their time
with each laceration;
needle and thread
and bonded by spell

they slowly stitch
my gashes
into temples.

“Lilith”

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