Hymn of The Heart
The hand that strikes is first the hand that holds,
a resplendent trap wrapped taut around my neck.
The copper taste of split skin coats my tounge like gold,
this red froth of iron: a beautiful wreck.
You choke the ragged screams inside my lungs,
then drag my lifeless body from the grave.
At night, I hum the violent anthems you have sung,
bleeding my own pale carcass to mirror all you gave.
The bare floorboards drink the fallen raven and swollen bruise,
as calloused fingers dig beneath my flesh.
But there is no part of me I would not lose,
to keep us tangled in this scarlet thresh.
You pry my sternum open at the seam,
and tear the dripping organs from my chest.
I offer up no prayer, no penitent scream -
for to endure this form of devotion, I am blessed.
You are a brutal god, whom I adore,
a violin verse between venom and Venus.
Hurt me, then hurt me once more,
leaving only my broken soul lying between us.
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