Gospel of the Fallen Lamb

Golden brown, your voice poured over me like honey dragged slow across a wound,
and I, the lamb, drifted with the tide of your hands.
No need to fight, no need to flee when the sun in your eyes
was the closest to Heaven I’d ever be.
I gave up forever to touch you,
to taste the heat in your breath,
to feel the weight of your shadow pressed into my ribs,
even as the pasture emptied,
even as the sheep vanished into your mouth.

One, two, three — here comes the sun,
burning out of your fists,
blinding, branding, bleaching the wool from my bones.
You never fell from the sky; you made me fall instead,
dragging me face-first into the ground
and calling it worship.
I counted the numbers,
you counted the breaths between my last sheep’s cry and my own.
Your light seared balance away,
laid itself hotly on my chest until innocence sizzled and split,
leaving only marrow for you to drink.

Her skin glowed green and blue, but here it was snow and pine,
beauty sharpened into a knife’s edge.
The mountain held its silence,
watched you push me down into the dark mouth of the cliff,
lilies replaced by frost,
yet choking me all the same.
The air shattered in my lungs as the ground surged up to greet me,
but I was already drowning in you long before I fell.

The cliff was not an end — only a wider mouth,
and I stepped into it willingly,
my eyes glazed with the sun,
never seeing the teeth beneath the gold.
I did not hear the mountain’s warning,
only your voice,
soft as scripture,
cruel as scripture,
promising I would never have to wake again.
I thought I was following you into love,
but it was only the dark,
and the dark was yours.

by Onnaya