The Flesh

You, thing.

I am convinced there is a God

because of the perfect cruelty of being lashed to you,

thing.

You, abhorrent tumor, cancer d'être.

I have spent my nights in an ongoing orgasm of mutilation.

Lashes are the only kind of pleasure you afford me.

Thing.

Your serpentine lashing inspires awe-

some, awful

divine or demonic, depending-- fitting

for such a

thing           as

you.