String me up on your canvas of envious lust.
Crucify me with the quills I scrawled my soul with.
Bleed from me my words of earnest infatuation
and drink from the sweet, bold red it renders.
You have had your fill, you have sipped your last.
For I will give no more.
Masked
pricked
drained
and slain.
My husk has nothing left for you.
An offering must be made
a sacrifice
an allowance.
For this devoted acolyte to continue
the goddess must praise
caress
surrender.
Perhaps then I will stir with life again
perhaps then my heart can be tapped for the harvest.
Because a deity without worship
is less than a pariah in a pantheon.
Without feeling, without emotion
without devotion- there can be no avatar
no pious manifestation of her will
no body or spirit to inhabit
only the idea, the theory
the absence.
Tonight the goddess kneels to my altar.
Or she will reap her loving disciple's wilting wrath.
