Sometimes I can’t get your scowl off my lips; they curl back over my teeth of their own accord, a grimace of pain, a snarl of back-the-fuck-off, and I can’t tell if I’ll lash out or tear at my own flesh; I just want to be closer to becoming you, this beautiful wreckage of a man, this strange angel who leaves ashes in place of fingerprints; I would burn offerings in my throat for you and ink them into my skin with needle and knife, I would worship you in metal and blood and bruises if you would but bless this pathetic mortal body as your temple.