Syringes filled with glittering liquor
make me intoxicated.
fill my empty, sacred mind...
A miasma of artificial divinity.
My body is too numb
to feel it is on a foreign surface.
with prismatic gems for eyes
crawls atop my still husk.
He is ready to claim a prize,
designing a disciple out of drugged prey.
I do not want this.
They all tried molding my sisters into a fantasy,
as if flesh is clay and men are gods.
"I am celestial.
However, even I know dirt yields no angel
Yet you are different:
you will survive The Baptism
that their bodies could not."
Those injections of complacency
melt frail resistance just as fluidly
as his hypnotic orbs locked my gaze.
Coy, forbidden desire for this pseudo-seraph
cloak all signs of defiance.
Stripped of more than freedom.
A garden without a flower.
Dystopian baptism of metamorphosis.