Auto da fé

You build a bonfire in the back yard,
feeding it on illusions I’ve kept
stashed beneath the sink with
dried-out cans of silver polish.
Nothing will restore the shine
to old dreams and shattered love.
Now, pet. Go. Into the flames with you.
Yes, my Lord, I say,
and forming verses in my head
I walk
into the heat and the light.
When I reach the fire I turn
and look you in the eyes
and start to rise,
leaping backwards,
dancing with the sparks,
embracing my destruction,
singing the consumption
of my tits and cunt and hair.
The fat in my tits crackles
and brings water to your mouth
and blood to your testicles.
You catch my voice in every spark
that floats among the fireflies
that soars into the trees.
And when, like a witch,
I’m safely burned away,
you poke at the ashes and
traces of my whispered breath
surround you
in the wind.
I am yours, my Lord,
you hear me sigh.
Even now,
I am yours.
 (c) oatmeal girl 2009

0 thoughts on “Auto da fé

  1. The sadist, the man I call my Lord, speaks of my courage. Somehow, I can’t seem to write any other way. Perhaps it’s the safety of anonymity that allows me to strip myself bare in public. The mask of oatmeal girl.

    On the other hand, I do have this exhibitionist streak…

    As for thank-you’s, it is truly an honor to have my poem appear among your stories. Thank you so much for your encouragement.

  2. wow. your writing *is* brave and bare. brazen, i would even say. you put it out there. very beautiful. it’s wonderful to have the feeling of creating something to be proud of.

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