#thete's an angry femme in all of us

[elisaenglish]

Upon Her Final Piety

“Then the high-priest, after stretching his hands toward heaven and uttering certain mysterious prayers before the fatal act, brings forth the culprit, who is closely veiled, and places her on the steps leading down into the chamber. After this he turns away his face, as do the rest of the priests, and when she has gone down, the steps are taken up, and great quantities of earth are thrown into the entrance to the chamber, hiding it away, and make the place level with the rest of the mound. Such is the punishment of those who break their vow.”

-Plutarch, Numa-

The most unpopular opinion in the room isn’t for want of trying. Six feet deep, she skins herself in the name of being good, positively teems with sacrificial longing.

Nonetheless disposed is deposed, and stripped of her crown—there’s absolutely nothing to be done. Void is the chosen one, replicant, aesthetic. Typified and type-set, fonts are the only way to go. That’s why she comes, past the life annulled—and in every glance, it's why that erstwhile slaughter’s on the cards.

Don’t say you didn’t know; the word’s complicit.

Optimal for fucking dreams, the thin wedge sates exactly no one, save the masses who consume the bought and sold. So is that you? Is that love? You know, in the world according to... Don’t you get tired of all those quotes? Don’t you just want to screw the recyclables? Join her in the grave, annihilate the sadist’s claim on truth and turn the dirt to gold?

You say, “Enough.”

Travesty pulls up close. She makes you kiss her middle finger, like a point of no return—and should her breath recant, she’ll die a vestal virgin.