Blasphemy : III
The quiet place was our altar, a cathedral made of shame, where you hid me like a leper while you used my name. I was the quiet martyr, the one who stayed and bled, while you were counting heartbeats in a stranger’s filthy bed. But the rot began much higher, in a house of false decree, with a father who was nothing, yet looked down his nose at me.
He sits within his office, draped in robes of false decree, a "prosecutor" fashioned out of filth and bribery. He gained his seat by crawling through the mud of nepotism, viewing every honest man through a dark and distorted prism. A stupid, short-sighted vulture with a mind of unworked silt, who built his daughter’s dowry on a mountain of high guilt. He mocked proffesion as simple and he spat upon my face, while he is nothing but a stain, a national disgrace. A man of "law" built on theft, a hollow, braying soul, who taught you that a human life is something to control. Now you know who I really am, is this the right time to call the President?
Who do you think you are with that uniform? Stop being delusional you filthy fuck.
First came the Wasp, who stung me from the shadow of your skin, the mistress you were mourning when I brought the tribute in. You were "bored" of my devotion, of a heart that never strayed, so you wept for a shadow-lover while my soul was being flayed.
Then came the Vulture, in the "Senior’s" sports gown, who watched you drink your virtue till the world was upside down. Five men within his chamber, and a glass of burning sin, while you let the darkness of the "elder" seep beneath your skin.
And finally the Meat-Slab, the pillar of the ring, with a brain of stagnant water and a soul of workout film. Is this 2010? Why he still thinks that ripped jeans paired with low buttoned white shirts are cool? A sweating, flexed non-entity, a creature of the clay, whose intellect is zero, though his social feeds are gay.
You lined your phones like trophies, a "player" in your pride, watching both your victims with nowhere left to hide.
The hate didn't just burn me—it invited in the grey king, the specter of the sunless void who took away my wing. He sits upon my chest now, a heavy, lead-weight guest, who stole the spark of living and put the light to rest. And with him came the shattered mirror, a spirit wild and fierce, whose jagged glass and shifting moods are all that I can pierce. She splits my soul in fragments, a tempest in the mind, leaving the man you used to know a thousand leagues behind.
The hospital glass is thick and cold, a transparent, frozen wall, etween the man I used to be and the thing I now must call. The sight of you is a sickness now, a vomit in the throat, a heavy, oily film of filth on which your "virtues" float. You took the body I held sacred, the frame I thought was grace, and offered it to every wolf who had a smiling face. From the club’s fermented darkness to the sheets of cheap motels, you traded in your low backward civilization family's name for the ringing of his bells. I hear the whispers through the glass, the news of your "new" life, the "needs" provided by a man who’d never call you wife.
The Muscle-Husk you chose to keep, the sweat-stained, brainless toy, who treats you like a "sleeping tool" for his brief and shallow joy. He buys your bread and pays your make up for the access to your hole, a transaction of the gutter for a life of hollow sin. You’re just a plastic plaything in his dim and flickering light, a"toy" to be discarded when the grunting work is through, the only thing a creature of his caliber can do.
The Mirror in my mind erupts, her jagged edges flare, she shows me what you truly are behind your Sunday prayer. The disgust is a living thing, it crawls beneath my skin, the memory of your touch is now the greatest of my sin. I am nauseous at the thought of you, of every word we spoke, before the grey king claimed my heart and your "religion" broke. You trespass at my door now, you bang the wood in vain, wanting back the "privilege" to soothe your shallow pain. But the man you kicked is buried; he died within that hall, and I am just the ghost who’s left to watch your empire fall. Let your father use his "office," let your "Meat-Slab" flex his arm, you are nothing but a toxin that has lost its power to harm.
A serpent in a Sunday dress, a fever in the blood, who dragged a noble spirit through a sea of filth and mud. The brain you kicked is shattered, but it finally sees you clear: A pathetic, shrieking nothing, fueled by vanity and fear.