I’m Baptizing You With My Spit

Your curtains aren’t drawn, 

I saw you– 

black books and another. 

But you aren’t like the others, 

you’re all mine in that imagination gift. 

Christian woman, 

Your hair is always up. 

Don’t you know that bun 

should be in your oven 

not on your head? 

Those books you read bite back; 

the PTA deems them hellish. 

Throw them into the flames. 

After you make my steak, 

I'll burn you at it. 

Why does the artist love you? 

The world needs to know. 

I’ll crucify you in cardboard oil. 

This paint just can’t get enough, 

I just can’t get enough. 

I’ll bleed you dry for pigment, 

and make you clean yourself up.