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Stigmata Whore

Poetry By: Mariska Webster
Poetry



Obsession.Blood lust.


Submitted:Dec 24, 2012    Reads: 44    Comments: 1    Likes: 0   


He lies

And waits for me

To cum

To His bed.

In His bed.

I slither

Like His snake.

Slipping silently smoothly

Past temptation

Touching tenderly

I am curious.

He penetrates.

I cum.

I go.

I ask,

Father, why?

Have You forsaken me?

Some nights His touch feels

Like a carpenter's nails

Ripping

Into my wrists

Like

Crucifixion.

I tear downward

Scratching

Digging into

The length of my arm

Until my veins

Rip

Wide

With jagged flesh.

The blood falls

Forward

Like red velvet cake.

He absolves me of my sins.

I

Flex

My

Palms

And relish

My holy life.

Other nights His touch is

Like clean, cold, steel.

A scalpel sharp enough

To cut ice.

This requires fine, delicate, precision.

A smooth slice

Ever

So

Slowly

And lightly horizontal this time.

Even though I try

To be

Careful

I

Cut

To the bone.

This time

The blood sprays

Like a hose,

The water hose of life,

Draining

My face

Of its filth.

Drying up my demon peepers.

When I am

With Him

I drip

With feminine death.

I have absolution.

I am

Pure

And clean

And holy.

I am Absolved.

Resolved

To be His

Whore.

Resolved to be his whore.





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