I’d love a divine hand to come down and slap you silly.
I want you to know you’ve done a bad thing,
I’d like you to really feel it and know it was from me.
My gift to you would be that knowledge,
Your gift to me was a stagger and a flinch.
Your soul is marked, not mine.
I’ll grow violets among your violence,
How dare you raise your hand to me.
When I remember it,
Your touch is grotesque
and slimy cruel.
It took me a while to find me
After it had happened.
I’m glad I’m here in the aftermath.
I’m glad I’m here in the aftermath and not in the middle.
You stand all straight on your cloven feet and your breath it sweats with rotting meat and your eyes are wet with a glaze that melts my stomach – makes me weak.
You stand so straight on your cloven feet. Your mouth is red and dripping meat but you don’t eat it, you spit it out because you’re wasteful – You’re made of filth and you’re wasteful.
You’re wasteful and you’re dense.
You’re an earthly consequence of poor choices made by someone better than you.