artemis of the ephesians

 the author doesn't know what the pen doest, 

and the potter is unfamiliar with the clay. 

 

Hell is in the details and so is god

and I am in the hallway outside of a great dining hall of infants

horde of devils, waiting to devour, 

my god my god why have you forsaken yourself!

who is the man that thought this was a good way to do things? 

show yourself!

 

fuck, it's me. 

and i'm not a man but not a woman, 

not a person but not a nonperson, 

an imposter in human skin, 

of the same proportions but with none of the same ingredients. 

 

staring into the murky dark water 

i uttered an offering, my words the only thing between 

myself and god. 

the veil lifted up and for a moment i beheld him 

as him as he can be, 

portly and ugly and writhing with worms. 

you chose your god long ago. 

he said. 

in pity. 

 

you chose who i was to be when you formed me from the clay. 

 

every moment of my life leading up to this point, leading up to blasphemy, 

leading up to the darkest moment of my life, lilith, babylon, 

artemis of the ephesians, 

all the evil and all the goodness in catharsis, 

in treachery, in rebellion, in debauchery, 

i write of roses whose thorns will never pierce me. 

and meet loving eyes as i write of hate. 

 

am i dirt, god? or merely a rib bone? 

do you love me at all or are you a figment? 

and am i clay, god, or is that reserved for men? 

shall i cut any more of myself away to please you? 

who formed me to begin with? 

 

fuck, it's me again