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Fall From Grace

pure disgust is felt

on the frayed ribbons

around your chest

you call your sanctity

.

as if it’s quite derivative

of a decried angel’s cut—

the pierrot’s sole pathway

to your own humanity

.

but it’s just vapour;

smoke and hallucinogens

lies dribbling from the

sludge of your brain,

.

crawling away in a

toxic kind of temporal

streak, an indictment

of classic chloride pain

.

oh, she’s malevolent

such brutality must be

a sanitarium propaganda,

just covered in someone

.

else’s later stages of rapid

cryptic dementia—pardon me,

but you’re still a stagnant

priestess…aren’t you?

.

we have ancient shrines built

over your grave, and waxen

wings, and the fruit that bore

no harm; as if that fake religion

.

is easily digestible—but our

disgust will constrict, just as

yours ties the final knot on the

noose wrapped around your jaw—

.

this is not your vestal sanctuary.

we are not your godless paradise.

autonomy is simply the crowning eden

you shall soon gamble away to lose.

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