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In my stockings of black,I, a lily withered,stoop in agony, unboundfrom honeyed suppression,pleading to be salvagedfrom this bruteyou aroused in me,this brute listening;

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In my stockings of black,
I, a lily withered,
stoop in agony, unbound
from honeyed suppression,
pleading to be salvaged
from this brute
you aroused in me,
this brute listening;


I burn for the vines
of my heart to be torn—
my blood, athirst, to be nothing
but a seething purge of sin.
Though what else is there
for my fingernails to do
than unseam my stockings?


My bones crack into leaves;
I wail, but no song resonates,
only the unmerciful beating
of the brute's pulse,
awakened in the shadows
of poison upon my tongue.
And I, a lily withered, plead on.


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