The witching hour embraces the decisions just
splattered across the pages of her biography.
Shaping her past, to embody her future. A dim history,
written not in blood, or in sweat, but rather in
the fluids of another. A gift-wrapped oxymoron;
stealing the art of giving, a Pandorean violation
for her to wear around her neck in eternity's Hell.

Inside the house that she called a home,
when she was a little girl, before she knew that she
was birthed to sin,
she sighs.
Climbs the staircase, ascending as if parting the way
for her looming apocalyptic judgment. Not modest,
or forgiving; no. Ascension into a pilfered segment of time-
as if for an instant, self-absolving herself
of herself.

And she enters the dark hallway, diction-turned-sour,
played through pathetic maybe-so symbols.
And this hallway she begins to grace.
No, not grace-
stagger through.
The only shred of light lent by
a generous beam from the moon,
a reminder that good will triumph over evil. That even in light,
sin thrives.

The door to the bathroom hangs from the wall, hinges bent and broken,
rusted and tarnished, an inch crooked
inconveniently imperfect.

Her hands, trembling, creases embossing
her self-sacrifice. Carvings of her pretentious being.
They grab the handle, still lukewarm, property derived
from the parents that nursed her-
just recently retired to their bedroom-
not for the purpose of radical geometric pleasure.
Her fingers close, a web around her parents lingering still-here presence,
stifling their desire to care-
to close her legs.

The door whines open, gives way to an unflappable room,
tile walls, a masterpiece which she was blessed to
grow with.

A memory: A necklace of weeds tied in meticulous knots,
a crown for her innocent head,
a crown of thorns to protect her-
to pardon her perverse habits. In the bathroom, she giggles, sunlight changing,
clouds morphing, forming-
beaming at the work of art fashioned as a headdress. Mother Nature
nurturing her children- bathing them in her treasures- her buds,
her sprouts: her decadent beauties.

The shower head spits at her, a filth of a whore-
dehumanizing her existence; telling her that
arms should stay arms-
should stay one's own.
Her breath still as his- her legs still of him,
her body existing only in relation to his touch.
Forever linked to another in love?
Maybe. Forever linked to another in meaning?
Doubtful.

The water, it washes her body, lubricates this beauty-
to endure her decisions. Her burdens so taxing-
washed away.

Her fingernails, they claw-
clean herself of this plague. Her hands grope, desperate-
rouged skin, surrendering to her cleanliness, or lack
thereof.

She rids herself of this curse she's bestowed upon herself.
Tries to wash away the boy to whom she is eternally, not maternally
bound to.
Her sweet moonlit skin- now maroon, emitting drops of her blood-
leaking the nature of her misbehavior.
The witching hour lurks-
the hour of mortal sin is among us.

So go ahead, my love: rid yourself.
Clean yourself.
Rub yourself raw.