She’s long gone. She is hot-spark divinity embodied in goose-bumped skin and framed by spiraling bones. She is the high, rebel Priestess, now she knows it, and she could never return to the too-small, so-quaint life you were offering that made you God and her, disciple.
I’ve got some tales to tell that are too good to keep secret; let’s write of our debauchery in a new scripture where the verses speak of hard-nippled freedom and hedonistic revelry. Our parables will be recited by snickering, paper-skinned grandmothers after the little ones are in bed, and our ...
This is me, in all my bare-breasted and stretch-marked glory. My wine-soaked clothes have been shed, and this is the rawest version of my body I’ve ever known. May my soul’s new shape be forged in the milk-white beams at moonset, and may this birth-by-lunar-fire be a short journey from shame to ...
She is a living mandala of light and shadow, and she owes you nothing; she is the cocooned Creatrix unfurling wings so fragile they would crumble in sunlight.
Stand steadfast when the renegade, nameless Goddesses spread their black wings wide and become Her demoness Air Force. Burn these events into your memory, for they are the only ones that will matter soon. This is not the apocalypse, this is the dark moon dawn.
I suppose this sinful Witch will have much to answer for, but if I am to be tossed down to the devil’s house, I would like to get on with it.
Here, in the realm of fallen angels, I am accepted into your warm arms as a freak and heathen, and you are permitted entry into the temple of my body as the Holy Shadow.