you can’t understand this kind of hunger
the unmothered sailing through crowds like ghosts
fishing for the next high
flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood
wine can’t wear this wound down;
a band-aid stuck to a scab
on the heart.
oh mother, the childlike god of sacrifice
tell us it won’t hurt
read us something righteous
to curb worms tunneling into our thoughts
our prayers are balanced on the edge of a razor blade
under the floor
of our church.
they’re handing out new tongues
to replace the ones that burned
no more dirty words
wash your mouth out
reading corinthians while
our noses delicately bleed.
© 2019 Mela Blust
Mela Blust is a moonchild, and has always had an affinity for the darkness. She has been writing poetry since she was a child.
Her work has appeared in The Bitter Oleander, Isacoustic, Rust+Moth, Califragile, and others, and is forthcoming in many more. Her debut poetry collection, Skeleton Parade, is forthcoming with Apep Publications in 2019.
Follow her at https://twitter.com/melablust.