The Gods are squeaky clean
And I am laden
With dirt –
Their halos and harps
And my mayhem
And madness.

I do not recoil
From my horror –
I have lived
There for years
And it has settled.

Love is the Gods’ undoing,
An undoing
Of sweet nothings.
I can hear them
Echoing the night away –
Telling stories
Of hearts, love potions,
And a general high
Of epic proportions.

I have suffered
The violence of man
And will no longer
Be silent,
No longer be silent,
No longer be silent.