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 and baneful.
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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