A SAINT OR A WHORE?

The dawn descends like judgment, heavy with blame,
Another Sunday silence where I swallow down my name.
Hands folded as relics, pleats carved in stone,
A vessel of obedience in a temple not my own.

Between altar and bed, the battle is drawn, Clothed in plain shadows, a disguise at dawn. Ink burns my skin, wine stains the line, Mapping the borders of the sacred and divine.

Chaste for the multitude, aflame in his sight, Living on thresholds, strangled by rite. A clash at the altar, a riot in the grave, Choosing which fragments of my soul I can save.

From sanctum to sin, the wire is a blade, Half of me frozen, half unafraid. Trapped in reflection, the spiral begins, Thinking of the thinking of the flesh I’m within.

Between two realms, I linger at the door— An icon of worship, a myth to adore.