Are you washed in the blood of the lamb? - LGW

 

Are you washed in the blood of the lamb?

Wearing my jeggings to the pub on Monday, writing about making plans to wear my jeggings to the pub on the next coming Monday.

Walking past a tree, always known to me as the deer's head, it looks as though its antlers were clipped in its sleep.

He engraved a knife for me, outline of a devil in cut meat, performative denim parked on tacky pub chairs, unravelling under weeks of spilling, of boiling over.

Once a stag, now a stump, I carved your name in what's left of the antlers, denim on skin, your hand on mine.

Please stop writing to me because i am recorded for the whole world to see.

Take your freedom from want, amuse me, texting your sister in the airport lounge, you've come to know you can only talk in liminal spaces. I told myself I don't need affection, but I shed a single tear when you brushed my arm.

You watched the water race, one tear from each corner of the same eye, the left one winning when it suddenly stops, it joins the other tear to make one giant massive tear, gaining speed at an arresting rate, they have won. Just like the raindrops on the car window, you couldn't be happier.

Beams of light leaking from your heart, it actually burns my eyes now, i think I love that about you so much, you've actually burnt my eyes now.

Tracing scantly lit cast iron, all with a potency  had not recognised in a long time. 5 drinks in 5 hours, feeling more sobered by stinging window slivered wind.

Lying to myself with disquieting fluency, but out loud I know I whisper such opaque truths, they seep into my prayers, their audio actualisation pricks my skin, drawing blood in a way close-mouthed aching never has. 

The skin of my thigh, reuniting with viscous vinyl, my skirt rode up so then I pulled it up. Double crossing already crossed legs, dissembling my own reality feels more mundane than fact, probably to most people. 

 A specimen more pure than I can manage to be.

I imagine I'll unceasingly be supple and unceremonious , I'll be balmy and orange, all things i didn't know were meant to be apologised for until repeatedly forsaken.

I delete my pining.

I am completely unbelievable, I delete the pining but it continues to secrete itself, flushing out in admissions of romance and acrimony.

Once a stag - Lili Ward, soundcloud