BURNT OFFERINGS

Our bodies are shrines
Shrouded in the secrets
Our teeth keep imprisoned.
We worship our gods
On small altars of bone and blood,
phallic thrones and with gold manacles
On our ankles,
We dance before them, naked, nameless,
Stained with sweat and oils, tears
And the honey between our lips.

Our eyes are stagnant waters,
showing gleaming sands that never shift
Even as we roil within, chained
To this pole like a thief of pleasure
When it is they,
They with their hot clammy hands,
Sour breath and dangling guts
Who seek between our lips
For lies that we are too tired to tell.

Our skins are canvasses
And each scar is a brush stroke;
Yellows and purples, bruised lips
And broken teeth capped with gold.
Our hair are scalps hanging from bedposts
And when they are done,
we become shadows gibbering
In the half light of the fading moon.

Who do we tell,
When our bodies are burnt offerings
On glass show cases and walkways?
Who would believe that our bodies
Are war zones and that these gold rings,
And silver necklaces are skeletons,
Bleached, hidden in between
Our knickers like stories we are too scared
To whisper even to ourselves?

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_{pixabay: Kalhh}

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This poem was birthed on a writing app. I actually intended it for my instagram page but the post intended no longer looks good enough to post. So this poem will take its place. Good night.

©warpedpoetic, 2019.