Your Bright and Morning Star

I saw you sitting alone
under the crab apple tree
reading a book with old pages
that I once recognised.

You had a pensive expression
before your eyes fell on me
and as I had hoped,
you smiled, and approached
my calm embrace

Because I love you
and I always will–
I’ll give you anything you want
because deep down

I

want you

to be happy

as you join me

in Hell

And when I’ve got you
I won’t leave you.
You’ll be begging at my feet.
Pale. with track marks on your arms
and circles under your eyes,
you’ll be thin and gangly.

Ill.

It will all happen so quickly
that like the prodigal son,
you’ll cry for your parents
with your head down a toilet
but this ain’t a parable, sweetheart;
there is no happy end to this
story.

Because when I snatch people from church
they always end up worse than those
who never attended—
more poor, more destitute,
more rotten,
decomposing from the inside

And the stench will be with you
forever. So even if you
go back to the place you once called
home,
they will smell you and know
that you had been in my bed.

Consequences will caress your
body, a string of letters
will follow your name
as if you’re a doctor of dissolution:
the letters to mark your
promiscuity, with me
The Enemy.

Let’s not worry about that, though.
For now we’ll lock it in a jar.
I’d prefer it if you didn’t call me
The ‘S’ word
Or the ‘D’ word.
Call me
Your
Bright and Morning Star.

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