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deacon
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thorns cut into my wrists .
the roses no longer visible , though i can smell them .
i can smell the roses , my saint , hes here .
ive quoted the prayer but never asked what it meant .
my priest never wanted to save me , i was a sacrifice .
sorrel eyes glare at me , still as beautiful as always .
the thorns cut into my neck , i wince and beg .
"this is what you were born for , my love"
he loves me , the priest .
he holds on to my hand and he praises me .
he tells me ive done so well and that now , ill help everyone find Him .
he never loved me , the priest .
im just a deacon , an offering to Him .
i was always a varlet , but he'll forever be my saint .
my perfect martyr , my saviour .
