CruxJill Alexander Essbaum
I was invited to your torture and I went. I brought no guest, I bore no gift. This will do, something cold and hard and small inside me roared. Weak in your unkind season, I did not listen. Atop that hill, upon your cross, I could not help but awe at all my losses. Every one, they trilled in the air like a birdsong dirge. I stared at you with threadbare eyes and became kinds of woe I’ll never classify as the sun slid over a sky so blue it shuddered. I swore I’d not recover. Oh man of sorrow, black as pitch and sleek, my scapegoat king disguised as sleep, dark creature, grief have ye turned into gall and we drank of it, royally. And the name of our star was Wormwood. And I crawled into your casket as a worm would; my ends were bitter and thrashing. But lovers are like wings and one alone will never make you soar. So mine is a whore’s forehead. I do not blush with shame. I tell you this to impress you with my honesty. These days, I drowse in spindles, loosely, and upon unspecified linens. This is no consolation, as laughter’s but an ess away from slaughter. I can and cannot help it, though I ought to. Christ, if this be dreaming let me never dream again. A devil’s duty, I ghost through your darkness better than some, though worse than most. I suppose that it pleases you to know I’ve atoned for these transgressions. Therefore: I sign my confession Jill. Beneath whom only is Hell.
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