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I am born from the scream god tried to hush,
stitched to a womb that bled and blushed.

my lips are cloven, my kiss a disease.
my wings have thorns and they flap with tease.

I drink thy dispair in velvet sips,
with petals stitched to my severed lips.

A garden grows beneath my skin, fertile and lush from rot within.

i sing a song of moans that wound to part,
of teeth that blooms beneath heart.

Dont touch me down there, its red but not a rose.
its a wound from god, that never chose to close.