basilique notre-dame

The pieces of my flesh misconstrued from your knife to my back;
the horrible screaming cries that quell the hunger in my heart once satiated by your touch

I vomit organs, intestines spilling from my mouth; each inch of my body was yours,
Crucified, so attached to you as my organs to my likeness

Do you feel martyred yet? Do you practice with liquor lit on fire?
I've grown the scar on the small of your back on mine,
branded from the hot iron of your selflessness that died long before I saw it there

My observations, suffocation from devotion
Was it like being the centrepiece of a cathedral, a sprawling landscape of stone and stained glass
that shone down in a holy light far too beautiful to meet your awful consciousness?
Why deny repentance when it's already under your claws?

YOU CAN CUT OFF EVERY BEAUTIFUL FLOWER
GROWN FROM MY VINEYARD VEINS
BUT YOU CAN NEVER REMOVE ME
FROM THE THREADS OF YOUR BEDSHEETS
SO YOU'D BEST THROW THEM OUT MY LOVE
THE THREADS MAKE UP THE ROPE
YOU'LL BE STRANGLED WITH