every 12 midnight

[i. confession]

as it strikes 12, i sit with the saints of violence. the bruises gather like apostles on my skin. the blood on my neck speaks in tongues i've learned not to fear. through the timber bones of this house, they argue again - the man and the woman, the cursed Adam and his not-Eve, locked in their nightly liturgy of blame. he strikes her with the bat and i hear God flinch. i laughed, not because it's funny, but because it is final. the laughter rises like incense off the cold tiles that kiss my soles as they slaughter each other like offerings.

[ii. sanctum]

i make a cathedral of myself. eyes shut like locked church doors. ears sealed - no hymns allowed. i twist my body into prayer, knees against ribs, breath held like stolen scripture. when the sounds stop, i rise from the pew of my own spine. i approach the mirror like an altar. but there is no reflection - only proof that something divine has left the room.

[iii. communion]

i have tasted holy violence and found it sweet. the scars sing louder than the choir. the blade knows my skin the way martyrs know fire. i split myself open not to die, but to worship. each wound is a verse. each drop of blood, a gospel.

at 3 am, the door swings wide and the air enters like revelation. my muscles weep as i drink my own sacrifice, warm and red and rich as the heart of a dying god. this is my body. broken for me. this is my blood. and i drink it. because it's mine. because it's the only god that answers back. try me.