I was not born beneath a sky, nor suckled by a mother’s hand. I arrived where prayers had already gone to rot. The sanctuaries remember me. Their crumbling walls tremble when I pass over moss and brick. I wander the abandoned holy places where even ghosts refuse to kneel, dressed in the likeness of a servant so mortal eyes may endure me. No dust settles upon me, and no reflection dares to keep my face for long. I guard what remains here: the sacred hush after faith has spoiled. I have stood vigil so long that the stones themselves lean toward me like hounds awaiting command.
I watched from the hill above the cathedral ruins as a lone figure climbed through the fog in a yellow hazmat suit, his boots crushing the pale grass beneath him. The mask concealed his face, but not the tremor in his posture. He stopped when he saw me standing beside my holy ground. Contamination clung to him thicker than the ash in the valley below. He carried the scent of laboratories, of men who pry open sacred carcasses and whose prayers have grown lighter than the whispering wind. They do not know fear. One word swelled behind my teeth—sharp as a handler’s whistle, ready to reduce him to obedience. Or ruin.
trad doodle (bic pen)
…hide me, blind me, hide me, blind me
by all means desecrate my altar
have you see the carnival at the end of the world?
therefore you & me
burn burn burn
is there any part of me that could satisfy you?
nourish me, nourish me, nourish me
i bite, i bite, i bite
