my right hand sits above a bloody gouge
whilst my left rises before a sigil of fiery truth

my feet bound that i cannot move
but for the pleasure of others more erect than i

and my tongue rests on the slow slide
down to splitting upon wall-nailed judgement

blame running ruddy along
the curse of mine inner thigh

my chest marked unmistakable
with a covetous magnetism

i am to blame for thy wandering eye
while my self a prisoner— blind

my mind runs silent
my life, a lie

my will, a burden
and my nature warped to sin

my knees, made for muddy
and my legs for the spreading

my hips for birthing
and my teats for suckling

or else what good am i?


About Moly

Average, boring, self-involved human. Twitter: @CultOfCocktails Facebook:
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