Heaven-Sent, Demon-Clawed

Do you actually feel things
or only know
how to write
them—
trace emotion like a crime scene,
name the blood but never touch it? 

I am becoming pale in appearance—
brows
hair
skin
and I am turning onyx within.

Mirrors show heaven-sent, but
the demon claws disagree.
Which woman, in which glass,
is me?

The dragon's silver
grows slick with blood;
the scent of embers
fills my lungs.
I rise from this holy battle,
but the screams linger and
mute the glory—
the warpath shifts 
to billboards, allegory,
filter kneeling in false euphoria.

They bleed little girls
and what their dreams are made of.

Won't you love me anyway?
You'll say yes so you can stay.
Youth you'd kill to trap, siphon, drink—
I'm the next very best thing.

xxx

kali rose

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substack (originally published here)