Scratch & twisting my skin apart and away,
I reweave the fibers of my being into
a more suitably sterile shape.
You scrub the doubt from my
sometimes too ripe mind,
but it only last until the morning.

I can’t help but wonder what your father’s Mary felt like.

Distractedly,
I try to remember the imprint of
your lips exploring my deceptively
fragile hipbones.
My skin phantom prickles at the thought.

When that isn’t enough
(and some nights, lust is never enough)
I chew my lips raw and bloodied.
Pain is the most foolproof sedative I know.
I hope to God baby your right
because I have no even residual faith in
Immaculate Conception.