There are things we do that make gods speak
You guide me into it
My back pressed into the ground, skin smeared with sand and ash
And in my eyes only sky, only stars
But you are close by: the tightness in my stomach tells me
What I desire is wrong: the sacrifice. The horror. The frenzy.
But when we do it together it is right.
The primal need for my blood fulfilled.
So we do the things that make gods speak:
I cover my face with dirt, and feel my rib cage collapse under the pressure of your feet
Each bone snaps in ecstatic chorus
A shock wave of ache and fear as my spine folds in on itself
This is how I am opened
This is how I am transmuted back and forth
These rituals unfold again and again:
The torment. The bliss. The blood. The skin.
You are my healer. You are my savior. You are my destroyer. You are my life ender.
And only the gods can hear my desire: the strange craving for the pain you inflict.
But we have done this many times before
Lifetime after lifetime
It is the only way we can make the gods speak to us
I go as far as I must to hear their voices
And I do
So this is what I asked for
So this is what I suffered to find
So we stand still and listen.