Worship

“Hey, girl.” Looking up from an elixir

that tastes exactly like what

someone would give a girl

to get her to come home with him.

He’s gorgeous,

this Greek statue whose white marble coat

has been scratched off to reveal the human underneath.

That warm skin stretches into a smile that speaks

of exactly what he wants to happen next.

This beautiful nephilim tugs me

through the haze of a modern temple

toward the sacrificial dance floor.

Surrounded by mortals

in various stages of mating rituals

and the lonely voodoo bastards in corners

casting bones for a temporary goddess.

Whispers in my ear,

this dance floor prophet

is predicting my future.

He leads me to the altar wherein starts

the obsessing,

the caressing,

the delicious undressing,

and then the glorious possessing

of heavenly beings whose wings have been ripped out

and left bloody on the floor with the rest of the clothing.

Need and desire mix into music notes,

a doxology of the damned,

a hymn of desperation.

Sacrifice bleeds onto pure white sheets,

the scarlet snow of sin.

I paint ancient runes on skin,

interpreting the constellations in his eyes.  

This is the worship of sacred and tragic bodies,

and in that moment I found asylum in his bones.

Smothered by incense that reeks of impulse,

crucified because of a smile.

He drags me into the dirt with no hope

for an exorcism from those eyes.

I wouldn’t want to be.

He is a devastating smile

and a demanding patron;

I am drunk on holy water and confessions,

forever a servant to it.

            Condemned.

And as I lay thee,

down to sleep,

I pray the dark

will let me sleep.