Beezlebub, lord of the flies

here my carcass lies, the flies

sip my blood like God

sucking blood clots of Sin out our lungs

my teeth ache to sing of love

but my brain tastes of horror

so my body rots—rejected

by the liquor and lamb

graced by the Holy; the Prince of Hell

spits honey drops, they slide down my palms and burn like firey ichor flowing sweet, but sick

like the drunken goat who comes for me, he comes for me, I’m scared of his eyes

they come for me—slice me open

the downy feathers

sprouting on my shoulder blades

fall out, one by one, until I am

ready

to crash head first into the pavement

nothing other than a goose

dressing up as a swan

not an angel like the book says

or the doctor praising me for my ignorance

I can still hear the buzzing in my ears

even though my

wrists are doused in pesticide

the fly on my windosill

wants me to test my theory; that I am

a bump on the earth’s skin

I’m okay with the divots and mountains

on my skin—I am okay with death I just wish

I could get myself to believe

in something bigger

something other than the rotting spider eggs

nested in the grooves of my brain