Internal Aches

The craving for darkness is insatiable

Yet you never indulged me in such “immorality”

Is it unbecoming of a woman to consume with only her hands in a bout of desire?

Existence seems equal parts suffering and elation

We all have our secrets

Is that what it means to participate in the unity

Striving for near-perfection like shards of glass

clear enough to see only the pieces we deem worthy of reflecting

To bow on our knees in prayer for the idea of salvation from our guilty pleasures

Drinking our own tears as communion for all the vile ways we have been bound to flesh

To deny our only connection to what pleasure might taste like

Does suffering only dissolve in the wake of purity?

Or does purity invoke suffering?

In the incessant denial of what is

No more wasted nights wondering

Let me wrap my tongue around these appetites

Not to wipe my hands clean

In pure revelation of the mess I've made