Maggots in marshmallows. Teach me an ultraviolence the French cannot defeat. Flick at me until I am open and seeping, threads of skin bursting like thinned rope. 

An ancient Mary with a baby older than her. A Lucifer match taking time to reply to the sandpaper. A God walking on upright nails. Saltwater overtaking bridges on stilts. Sliding down until your knees are scraped. Bombing the emperor, guts and gold all over the palace. Dark Joan of Arc, sweltering under their iron. Did he really die on that cross. Boiling braids. Romans all over my body. 

Virgin/ian

Virgin/al forest fires. 

The annihilation of the nuclear family is in my sex. 

Bones and warm leather twitching, a halfsquashed mosquito under the light of a lantern flame. 

Gulping the iron spattering out from my lover’s liver, passionstains around my lips. What more could I desire, she says, not having tasted the full inch of my skin. Moaning in agony and relief. Her knuckles and palms could never travel there even though her toes and brains make it safe. Playing with the loose threads of intimacy on my thighs. Warping the wrap around my fingers.

I get to her without a thrust. A November in flames, her world is pulling, the Sun is taking advantage of her. A bed is the most comfortable place in a prison. A bed is anywhere my back lies and a mattress, only. 

A beige doe with an arrow in its side. Broth weeping. The president threatens us with rope and rifle. The pope begs for our persistence. Always the warrior but never the beast. There is urgency in bleeding. 

Heavy cream left to chunk out in the heat. Where do we go if not there, she says. Sweat drenches her hair. I left her out in my rain. She whimpers for me like all the water in the world is under my tongue. 

Rusted chains in my backskin like an ingrown nail under dead flesh. A mannequin left to melt and mold next to rotting rats in a dinged up dumpster. How can I want what most people want but still feel sick for it. Spiders only come out when I am not at home. Acres of vile. They have wars for one world’s peace. I am on top of her, but nothing is touching me except denim and brown eyes. No tongue nor finger, we stare at each other a look that can only be described as one a lovestruck fox would make to another lovestruck fox: primal and innocent. I am one of God’s girls. And I am good, perfect.

I am purity, walking.