The Whore

I was once a miracle, naked and bloody and screaming
I was a sign, from a god, of love, fom the universe, from some far distant realm
Only in the back of their pitiful heads
I used to be precious
But those tender wings I flew in with, deathly pale and full of heavenly hope have rotten like a carcus in an August sun
While I have risen up under a new moon
They have sloughed off and all that's left are black and bloodied stumps, a sweet banquet for those giant flies
And their god has found a place beneath my breastbone
No angel, no longer
I am the antichrist.
I have no seat next to my father.
There was never any hope for me.
I am no daughter of grace, but a whore to the sons of false entitlement
So then let me be their whore.
Let their cocks find a resting house in me, let my corpse be the bed that replenishes them, let my cunt be the canvas in which they paint themselves a new future
Unleash the monsters that lie hungry within, pawing at their fleshy cages, their whimpers erected and dripping and desperate
Can you hear them call out for me? Who am I to deny them?
I am no sweet child.
I am no such miracle.
I dream in shades of black and grey and red
I lie with lusty blood.
I am a whore of humanity.
What a bitch I have become from the babe I once was
The same bitch, the same thing
Naked, bloody, screaming
But no longer innocent
There was never any hope for me