Holy War

  I used to prod my empty
stomach - not empty like a
blank page, rather each
word drowned in ink, empty
like a cadaver, life blotted over.
   I swam in the ache, the flooding
nothing, as I won. Against
the pain, the shake of my
legs, the part of me I
wanted to
   Punish. I was a noble warrior,
a smiling master, the king and the
soldier in this Holy war. My prayers
sloughed off my tongue as
revulsion, rather, and sweet terror,
easy to know. I pressed
   Fingers to bruises, or waited for
tea to brew, to wrap my plump
fingers around my cup and
savor the ache as they twitch
against me. Every
   Victory meant I could
be good someday. I could burn
away the rot, fight my way
through the flesh, thick with
sin. I could find me amongst
the viscous misery.
   I found only bile and ink blot
empty.