Belladonna
Belladonna..
Conceded to bereavement
And your man grows hollow
Belladonna..
Your promenade meets convulsions
Grass reaches for my tree, and I transform into all the conundrums of the world. And as colossal as it may seem, it beholds the solitary eye. Behind the hill, behind the ivies, the chainsaw persists, and before me, it lances my addendum.
And like any polycephalic thing, one acquits and the other contemns. I cannot assassinate the guillotined, so my tail hauls the erratic cello. And I yearned for amelioration, but every luthier I met was a man.
What must I hold to secure sanctity in the face of salacity? And I so covertly clambered the passage to the basilica, only to find myself pillaged by the hands of chanting choristers. You said my movements were too decrepit, that no young woman would have lost that much vivacity to resist at my age.
Every town recognizes my screech, but none apprehend my veiled voice. Like a fluxing sleet you held me between your silent arms, and you asked why I was so bone-weary. My disrobing never conjured feelings of solicitude towards me; you did not even bother to lose a few silver coins in exchange of a new garment.
But it took more than just the torment of the fabric, I was webbed with constellations of blood Orions. Unable to perceive the light, grazing on what is left of my hollow skin. And like any polycephalic thing, my blood fled from the same provenance, but they never met again. The crimson and the ruby each settled on a lap of mine, their fates slit between the land and the sea.
I cascaded into corrosion. My ashen visage turned bleak, unlit.
Belladonna..
Your scarce bones
If your violation made me crude and stained, then was it ever me? Or was it the quality of what holds you?
I do not wish to dissipate my tears; I wish to turn them into cyanides. I wish to become a scorching castle to the man who knows not an ounce of warmth. I wish for my horror to supersede, to abduct the spectator. I wish to turn into a terrorizing cloud, enclasping the sky. So that when they die, I impede their souls from accessing paradise.
I pray to amble like a critter, to scurry like a black widow. I wish to turn into an apparition of the worst ephialtes. I wish I was never in bliss of this beauty. I wish I was but a prosaic passerby. Yet, what was I called if not a spell-bound beldam of the archfiend? Even with all this willful cadaver, I was to be risen as another pythoness. There is no resolution here.
And every lad wishes to be the huntsman possessing my head, as though their starvation could be satiated by devouring me. Your fascination with the immaculate conception cries to bind me, but your heroine wears Marian blue, and I wear forest green.
I never perceived power, but you forced me to recognize it everywhere. And like any polycephalic thing, I am deemed an anomaly. I used to cover my body like an unkempt bed, until you extended the space between my legs and now nothing suits.
Bare, I pass by my working husband and the bishop. He whispers something to him, saying that all women have performed the same tune since the coming of Hava, but it is true as morning that the whisperer has been male since genesis. I now know.
Buried under the snow, and how witless are these men to not know that what they have done creeps back. I have never known of snow that washes away profuse blood.
Belladonna..
A cross for wrinkles is how they found me, and they retrieved my body only to repossess me. A necrophile’s dream of antique vestige. What eminence does ascension hold if death be?
And like any polycephalic thing, my wrath pulses twice. Like any polycephalic thing, I depart twice.
I am the tales of macabre you adjure your offspring never endures, the untenable code that clips onto the cure.
I am the gardener of Eden whose spade connived with the grim reaper.
I once desired to enshroud myself betwixt layers of cloaks; I begrudge the novelty of my silhouette. To not permit the gaze of any man, the touch of the coil. But I cannot let your atrocity be veiled by me, I wish for you to find the ebony adorning my eyes filling you with dread.
You composed the stake and constructed a crucifix within, conducting a séance. Oh, but what of interest it is that you paint yourself as the Romans, and I as Christ.
And what a pity it is that God once sent a clone to be nailed instead of the man he loved, and yet he leaves me unclad in the cold, crownless and disgraced by thorns, readied to be seen shredded and aflame.
You told me that I was too violent, but wasn’t I dictated from birth to be, the moment my mother pushed so vehemently to detach me? You told me that I was devoid of a soul, but why are you unable to usher light in the act of martyrdom?
Do not call out my name, you need not find me. I know of your residence of malice. I come bearing lips of nightshades, waves of claymores. Your hips of blood, your anatomy of melancholy reach me.
But haven’t I already told you of the prodromes? Why would you weep when it is only intrinsic you bleed the first time?
