Mood by knee by cunt I'm not praying this time Up-keeping a boiling garden Alerting none, giving no quarter Leaving a self-made tower As a lesbienne within a queer man There is no damage I will decline Up to bat, platformer trains, going Without therapy until romance appears Amidst stimulants and lathery praise Chamomile wisdom Granted by flail Heathen gravitas Scratched into bread Whispering in a circus Pulling the kaddish And leftovers for sacrifice Lord, Lass, and Labourer of Hell Conjuring verklempt from filial mythologizing Gauging family members' worth by suffering Within systemic trauma bondage from teat to grave Enumerating the blessings accused of carrying worrying marks From glass under the magnesium-cued blazes of hiding oneself Via alleging facts under the stultifying rooves of faith-based ignorance Toss this match and cue the opening motif of our heroine's bildungsroman Every time and twice as often as ever Letter the tenth and dozens the baker Each sight is sweeter than the last Each taste shades the mind as continuous horizon Blanket consent to dream, discover, and evolve No getting away from the formerly-mysterious skin Never for long enough, never too rough, reciprocating salvation ![[Alexandre-Cabanel_The-Fallen-Angel-1847.jpg##bgimg]]