deacon
-
thorns cut into my wrists .
the roses no longer visible .
i can smell the roses , my saint , hes here .
ive quoted the prayer but never asked what it meant .
i was a sacrifice .
sorrel eyes glare at me , still as beautiful as always .
the thorns cut into my neck , i wince and beg .
he holds my hand and he praises me .
he never loved me , the priest .
im just a deacon , but he'll forever be my saint .
my perfect martyr , my saviour .