Lamb to Slaughter

I set my heart between your teeth
to fulfill Delphic prophecy;
slit my throat and slowly bled
while chanting prayers in my head.

Gouged out my offending eyes
to strip off pretense and disguise,
set them at your burning alter—
these first sins of Adam’s daughter.

When was it that I misspoke?
What ancient rite did you invoke
to carve me up as offering
and pleasure in my suffering?

Must I dance for seven days
to staunch the bloodlust in your gaze?
Serve my head upon a platter
to draw close this savage matter?

Then, if I must play this part
I’ll poison this reluctant heart:
as I scream into the grave
I’ll serpent to the sin you crave.

If I must burn at your pyre
I’ll cast us both into this fire,
rust the metal of this cage
and fan the embers of my rage.

Ah, do you grow sick of violence
echoed thin in screeching silence?
Smothered by the hands you’ve bound,
o’ weary head that wears the crown?

Hush, let us delight in pain,
embrace and speak in tongues again.
Careful that your feet don’t falter
as we dance towards the slaughter.


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