Looking back at this poem, now, I see it as more cynical than I really I am.
—
Christ paid twice for daily pain,
delving deeper in thorns than questions might imply.
my hands were brown with martyr’s blood.
soon wrapped in the leather-skin of long-dead animals
I watched faith’s bloody kisses sweep the masses
like butterflies landing on their cheeks,
eating their teeth from the hollow spaces inside their heads.
Not faint their callous touch,
it lurched through the humbled spaces
and perched on withered limbs.
A select few were gathered and allotted time in their master’s arms.
I rather like that poem. It is an incisive, harsh view of the world, which I think you’re right is not quite who you are (here). It’s certainly not my place to tell you who you are, but I “you” are less withered limbs and long-dead animals and more loving welts, heaving breasts, and pleading eyes.