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A Star Called Wormwood
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Hysterical Paroxysm
in this space
she wastes the days
isolated until
its time for her to put on that cheap
plastic, pornographic performance
and with a flick of her wrist
she tells me that this is all there is
dear girl, how can you be so sure?
her body is a temple
but i can't wait to see the holy of holies
and whisper divine names
her body is a temple
but i can't wait to drink from the cup
that held the blood of christ
she says she needs a drink
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and i tell her i can offer her more
i tell her of the satisfaction
she reminds me that she's still a whore
she could understand
but she's not listening
she can't hear me tell her
faith is not her friend
the moon is hers to taste
if she wants it
and anything else that she can name
is hers to take
a true hysterical paroxysm
but she's content with the ones she can fake
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