Purely of Joy

Burn me;
put your hands on my skin
and blacken me.
Sear the imperfection out of me
until you’ve glassed me,
left me as bone and char
and shining surface to be admired,
to be feared,
to be lusted after.
Burn me alive;
I’m begging you for it.
Do it, and know my screams
are purely of joy.

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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