From Clay

I would love the way you wounded me
even if I did not love you;
only some kind of divine perfection
must know how to bleed a man that much
and still leave life remaining.
the perfect sadist,
make me want to live just a little longer,
to suffer just a little more.
I’d burn churches in your name,
and hang upon your cross,
and forever be a cannibal of your flesh
if only you would destroy me,
bring me down to ash,
to build me up again, from clay.

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.
This entry was posted in Poetry and tagged , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.