MIDNIGHT MASS.

somedays, the hunger feels righteous// intro

and so she thrashes, smashes her against the tunnel walls like a dervish, a devil woman demented and godlike, with her too-many arms waving, a container for grief and this other thing she cannot name. a broken discontent, willing itself to life.

possession (1981)

in this space right here that we made for each other, you can say anything and i will not abandon you. unwrap the worst things you have done. watch me hold them to the light and not even flinch

trista mateer

━

How often will you repent?

How often do you pray until your knees are bloody, until your voice is lost and your fingers are numb?

You were just a girl, with too long limbs, blood in your mouth, and scrapped knees as the hushed whispers of your mother fell on deaf ears. She prayed, rosary beads tucked in between her fingers; for your salvation, praying that the love He has for you is enough to forgive your sins, forgive the red staining your fingertips, forgive the way you seemed to hold your blade as if it were a part of you, forgive the blood that flowed through your veins.

His love, you learn as the years pass, is the same as your father's. It's smothering, ugly, and acrid, and its cruel, all teeth and rot. It's ants under your skin, taste of copper on your tongue and tendrils of fear curling in your chest. It's quiet and angry and sharp like the blades against your back and the bile rising in your throat.

How often will you repent?

The grip on your weapon loose, the world around you falling silent, a hand on your shoulder and a whisper of Him and his kindness, of Him and his forgiveness but you know now that girls like you, who are more rot than girl are not meant for saving.

Inside of you, something seethes, it's cruel and more animal than human. It's a quiet thing, a viscous poison that seeps into the cracks of your soul. It's overwhelming and inconsolable and it wants and wants and wants until you are left barely a shell of yourself, copper tainting the air and fear clawing at your chest as you stare at the massacre you left behind.

You hear your father laugh, your mother's stares burning into your skin and your hands curl into fists, nails digging into your palm leaving behind bruises.

Memories, you had come to learn, were a noose around your throat. No matter what you did, no matter how many times you sat in the back, incense burning into your lungs, and prayed for redemption, it never seems to loosen.

How often will you deny what you are?

New Orleans was not a place she wanted to return to. The shrill screams still echoed in her head, the wound on her shoulder still raw and aching but Kieran had always been kind, a grounding voice in between everything. A kinder presence in between the callous words and sharp blades. And in that city, she meets a creature as damned as her, carrying the weight of his family's sins on his shoulders.