WOW: Anathema
A curse by any other name
would sting as sweetly sung,
reborn blasphemous baptism,
left quivering on your tongue.
You call to her.
She answers.
Years spent calculating space,
fingers tracing tiny fractures
of beauty aged upon your face.
She wants your anathema.
She wants your suffering.
She wants your fear,
to lick your tears
as you dream of brighter things.
She wants your weathered stories,
non-fiction buried deep,
lamented limbo of your crucified sin
haunting inconsolable sleep
And so you let her drink your poison,
your old fears laundered clean
and she’ll love you anyway,
your fated anathema queen.
You thought no one wanted the poison,
or the shadow you’d become.
You thought no one wanted your poison.
But it’s no poison upon her tongue.