shallow

Where are you, O god of small things?
The subliminal passions are calling on you.
Barricades are broken. Virginity too.
Let go off me, wild! Let go.
Every minute bubbles with ecstasy, through
skin, eyes, bones and roots.
Voices morph into melodious daggers.
Silence stabs in bathrooms.
I walk with anguish in my holy blood.
Tragedies hit me below.

I address your nights with charm.
Animations. Seductions.
You create me. I morph.
You breathe me. I morph.
You touch me. I morph.
I shall play in the lowest,
with your crooked brows,
with your red horns on my nails,
with your eyes on my platter.
Marinated flesh.

O Lord of headstrong air, I bow.
To your vast kingdom of burials.
To your barren lands and shaved heads.
To your sketches and scratches
on tattoos of my birth.
A headless ballerina!
I will appear at the grotesque emotions
to ring a death knell.
You will be done when I decay,
nauseous, in female hunger.