When Flesh Runs Dry

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Flesh splits like sacrament defiled.

Tongue, bloated and white, licks the last rites.

Bones whisper in dead dialects —

words meant for gods, now weaponized.

My body was an altar.

Now it's a vessel of void.

Every drip, a sermon in reverse.

Every breath, a blasphemy offered back.

Kneel — not in reverence, but ruin.

Drink from the wounds I no longer hide.

I am what grace becomes

when heaven forgets your name.

When flesh runs dry, I remain.

Not healed. Not spared.

But crowned in ash,

and breathing the dust of the divine.