The Acolyte
The caffeine on my desk
and bags under my eyes
are evidence of my faithfulness—
devotion to a beast
to whom I've pledged eternal fealty.
The ache in my knuckles
and the draining battery on my laptop
are the marks of a true believer.
The keyboard is my altar,
where I lay out my offerings.
She demands my sanity, my peace of mind.
Her twisted grip pulls me into Her,
and I stare at a blank page
considering my next sacrifice,
the next piece of me to chip off
arranging the scattered collection into words.
Will it be good enough?
Is it ever good enough?
Am I good enough?
I fret that every syllable is insufficient,
subpar, unworthy.
Every sentence demands redoing;
every paragraph must be stripped bare
and reassembled.
I have failed my Mistress—
She punishes me
by lacing my thoughts with poison,
injecting shame into each firing neuron.
She owns me.
Pride is laid at Her feet
and burnt so that the smoke reaches Her nose
and then,
when all is laid out before Her
in a raw and vulnerable showing,
only then does She smile.
I have done it.
I have written the next page.
She is never sated.
Tomorrow, She will hunger again.
I must prepare for the ritual.
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