her heart was light as a feather,
her love was true as the tide.
though you’d call her the devil,
did those tears disappear, the ones you cried?

you hold the gun to her teeth,
because the mirror would just feel too real.
what lovely little discordant portraits of sin you paint
with brushes made of her soft hair.

swallowing god like a naughty, sharp sword.
riding your high horse, bound and gagged
to the lies you tell. dreams you once had
fell. the crucifix, sharp in your bloody hands.

pointing a finger at her, with three pointing right back,
nothing but dirt and grime lacing the fingernails
you used to pet your prey, stoking the flame
while you pray, preparing a princess’s brine.

but she’s not a princess, nor a peasant saint,
she is satan, whether she is or not.
without fur, without fire, just a heart etched
and a crime poorly sketched.

you loathe her, she pities you.
those bony fingers you strike her with
only lead to a bonier, drier heart inside.
your brittle, broken prayers can’t save you from that.