these are the holy girls / with divine trances and cratered moons for hearts / ripe ardor and unsalted sighs in bathroom stalls, yes they're waves of empty devotion sometimes / violence wrapped in silk the other /
they have so much love to give /handwoven intricately in the nooks of their lips / where ache and pain have lulled themselves to sleep / where the universe's anguish begins and ends in their ragged palms / so much lust in the arches of their hip-dips / vacuum kisses are faith and legs spread apart is tradition
these are the holy girls with vile lies / they shuffle through bleak misery in their cores and drip remedy potions in your bare nests / flowers blossom on their pallid spines in golden bruises / after all nibbled possession is their forté / bruises can be love if you let them be
these are the holy girls with heart-broken poetry on inky paper and oxymoronic souls to save / they slip neck-deep into bad religion more than anyone else
