Poppet of my flayed flesh, my tormented bones, cloned of blackthorn and rowan, adorned in clair de lune

Intricate details of my far flung soul, like a scavengers nest spilled in storm: broken bits of wrought hedges, shiny trinkets of glass and resin, frayed threads and strands of hair, copper heads and cobwebbed dust

Thoughts that skip like stones, upon the placid obsidian mirror of yesteryear and the morrow, ring the mental fuck it wherewithal, the ghosts of incandescence moan my mournful dirge

Fingers set to work, in black salt smudge and hallowed earth, bindings and pins, she’s stitched lipped and blinded, her bare body righteous upon the pyre, the instrumental flames, rise in a cacophony of words from the pages of her own tome

The whipping girl, the wretch, the witch

To burn, to proof and cast, I curse her, the embodiment of intellect, so no wound, nor gesture of kind could fell her strength, her will…I expel, I recover, I seal the threshold, crafting an invocation of blade and blood, with which I spill, I exhale

Nights, I await our resurrection, the evacuation of tomb and the unveiling of caul, whereupon I splice foe with soul, aware the cycle won’t ever be broken

Our duel of heart, dual of will and woe, our evidence of circumstance, my most murderous crime against self

E.A. O'Connell. November 2018