My God's Nectar

Bite the lungs, no venom—that’s ambrosia.

Fireflies and fallout shelters, there’s no closure.

I close my eyes and count the faces

of my personalities, my lovers, my faded chases.

Marshmallow kisses, fruit, and folklore,

Please don’t haunt me anymore.

I don’t fight my demons anymore.

I drown in cunnilingus in fields of ambrosia.

Demons don’t scream like in the folklore.

But they leave silently with no closure.

I try to follow, endless chases.

Left no traces, just blurry faces.

I see nightmares in all the faces.

They don’t want me anymore.

My dreamcatcher isn’t one for chases.

My sheets are stained with stale ambrosia.

I try to find a deeper sleep, some closure.

But the demons sprint with fledgling folklore.

Jersey Devil, pixie dust, I was born of folklore.

But the pages are filled with names, no faces.

Little black book, closed, still no closure.

I don’t want to be me anymore.

I remember when the world smelled of ambrosia.

But I’m tired of being the one who chases.

I am tired of the chases.

Tired of cumming to hallowed folklore.

Fingers sticky, deep in my ambrosia.

Tired tongues and christened faces.

I don’t want to be lonely anymore.

But there’s no one here to give that closure.

Maybe I don’t need closure.

Maybe just the death of chases.

I don’t know what I need anymore.

But I’m sick of living within folklore.

Sick of collages of men’s faces.

Fever dreams, I drown in ambrosia.

Full disclosure, it’s too sweet for me, the ambrosia.

Soured chases, dissolved faces.

I won’t hate me anymore; stitch together my own folklore.