And how old am I?
I feel infinite,
a waxen form taking unbending shapes for eternity.
And have you fucked me?
Oh yes, you’ve fucked me—
right in the place where it hurts,
that secret place not even my mother knows.
You think me impetuous?
that fits your sentiment.
But I’m not quite so young,
a small rosebud not yet blooming.
I’ve given up my naïve ways, haven’t I?
You’ve made sure I gave them up to death;
my devil in Hell,
that little imp dwelling in the back of my mind.
You played with my fancy,
giving me up for hopeless hatred.
The walls gave way to fire and I cried out,
thinking the abyss was finally taking me down.
Does depression kill you?
Does anxiety fuck you with a million bullets?
And will it ever stop,
will the pills suck it dry like little sponges?
and then maybe you’ll get a girl into your bed tonight.
That’s what you want, isn’t it?
Oh, and then the cherubim will come,
dangling laurel wreaths of crimson and gold.
Will trumpets sound as you climax,
their little golden feet flying round your bedclothes?
Maybe then you will see,
when the fireworks have died away,
what it means to be holy—
not just in mind but in soul.