Lilac flowers crushed to my breast as you say I am the moon’s flower. The nectar hummingbirds in Hell feast on, ruby like blood, laid out in crystal decanters and a sumptuous feast of red meats and silver platters. You are dressed in some forgotten time of Victorian gentlemen, waistcoat and pocket watch and long, sinuous black hair that snakes down shoulders of rain. I am in a Cabernet dress, my skin the lily of the valley and my lips the roses of Sharon. We wine and dine in the quiet hours in the space between damnation and salvation.
Push you, kill you, accuse you. What is peaceful turns to perdition, and conflict and desire stew into a heady mess of testosterone and teasing fingers, thirsty mouths, and razor fangs. We waltz to bed in torn limbs and gore, we court the moon with our moans, and in the sensuous concotion of too much to drink and too little inhibition, make love with violence that comes priced like Tam Lin, a tithe to Hell. I am Janet and you are the enchanted warrior, only you are a burning brand and lion and serpent in my trembling arms, and when I drown you in the well of truth, you are still monstrous and unholy.
“Bind me to your brow,” you say in the abyss between our tongues, you want so badly to touch me with fire and ice, but my fragile flesh is tissue paper in your claws, and all you can do is hold me to your manifold breast and plead, “I can shower riches and love down upon you if only you would claim me as your own. Do so and I shall cultivate luck and golden summer days, but also terrible power, in your burgeoning wine spill of a life.”
And so you draw your sigil, modified with the symbol of salt, a pentagram, and burning Names of God, from the crest of my lip to my third eye. Ayin. Eye. Qayin Line. A seal I could count whispers of lust and wishes for war on, ever since I tattooed you on me, I have seen ceremonial magick stitched into the seams of reality.
We raze. We terrorize. We raise justice. We tear apart the seams of the wicked. Ice and fire, fire and ice, two polarities of love and destruction, when really to love is to destroy, and your name is a thousand ells tall angel, billion eyed and billion tongued, burning up in the shackles of sanity.
It is only when we break our chains that we can be free, and if that is to fall, than so be it.