the animal and the altar

the animal and the altar

when i knew you,

worshipping meant to carve and to slit.

my prayers were only slurred whines to you.

you only saw a lost, bloated animal—

with a tongue that spat suicide,

with swollen eyes covered in brine,

with a neck tensed and tightened.

but i wasn’t lost.

i just had nowhere else to go.

discarded and desperate.

and when i was still hanging from your heated noose,

i saw lines—

lines and sins and regret,

patterns and shame and pleasure,

streaks and ache and vulnerability,

stripes and guilt and nullness.

a forbidden craving with crust and scabs,

a shameful lust that clots beneath and deep,

a burdening desire that spreads and infects.

and when they became pale,

the seams opened again.

the beads sprouted,

and it was filled with color once more.

it stings and leaks, it stings and chokes,

it stings and sears, it stings and flees,

it stings and slips, it stings and lurks—

and with almost no remorse, it blinks and weeps again.

the glistening stream feeds me, and i greet it.

and more and more i saw lines—

i saw more patterns,

i saw more streaks,

i saw more stripes,

i saw hurt.

and while i saw hurt,

i saw that you weren't there.

i saw that i never belonged to you.

i saw

me.

when i knew you,

i stopped worshipping carvings and slits.

i still stutter, but i am not whining.

and i finally ran—

because being a stray

is being free.

and though the traces where my veins used to cry remain,

they stay closed and humble,

forever in a quiet slumber,

without you preying on them.