catholic guilt

a collection of sonnets without true voltas

i.

Would I my insides were on my outsides,
for perhaps then I may feel relieved, or
I’ll just feel dirty where my heart resides
and thus remain stainèd forevermore.

I fear not the night, but rather that which,
when given the chance, would eat me alive—
the blood on the snow has beauty so rich;
If beauty is terror, terror will thrive. 

I could embrace the filthy and the vile
were it to make me feel something holy
the allure which will, verily, defile;
The bloodlust of the angels was beauty.

God alone was Lucifer’s most belov’d;
Now he must envy the angels above.



ii.

I look in the mirror and loathe myself;
my hidden disgust builds into a scream.
The words in my head, things I cannot shelf,
make my skin crawl. I cannot be redeem’d.

Out, damn’d spot!–the stains you put on my skin
are seen by angels’ eyes, and they curse me.
I owe no one my body, wrought with sin;
the noises from my mouth are for pray'r only.

I want to cast aside this awkward vess’l
but am doomed to never again be whole.
All that is fair is become something foul,
and all that is foul is now black as kohl.

This, what a wonderful caricature
of intimacy that makes me impure!




iii.

I feel the pain of fair Ophelia–
my violets withered, my soul disgraced.
Final judgement weighs on me, th’idea
that my identity has been erased.

But if I cut myself open and spill
my guts for everyone, does that make
it less special, less intimate? And will
everything be alright, dull the ache?

If myself I crucify before you,
will you replace my insides with flowers,
make me pure again? Or perhaps you, too,
will leave me, and the Dev’l my soul devours.

All men hate the wretched, which I now am
No one will see me vuln’rable again. 



iv.

The lamb no longer knows his own body;
like me, he wants to bathe in holy fire.
‘Love’ is the drug that is bound to kill me–
we’re angry, for we are stuck in the mire.

Lamb, afraid to look into the clear pool;
When will he find the strength for biting back?
Rage on, little creature, you are no fool–
The cross that bears you down is growing slack.

The wolf loves the lamb, but to devour him;
what if the lamb loved the wolf in return?
Little lamb, stainèd with blood, ever grim,
his revenge will be watching the wolf burn.

‘Cute thing’ no more when tearing wolves apart–
the wrath of the lamb that will eat out your heart