Iscariot

You stayed with me, believed in
me, worked with me and... well,
I don’t think I can say “pushed”
me but you were there by my side.

I trusted you—we were on the
same page, had the same beliefs—
people said we were crazy for
marrying so young but we

were ready—at least, I know I
was, and I still am, and I thought
you were ready too, ready to
fight with each other side by

side until death separates us,
ready to conquer every tribulation
and problem, ready to push each
other and work on changing

together. I thought we were
together. But instead the bride
sold out the groom, called him
blasphemous and heretical,

saying the groom had been
telling lies for years, and she
colluded with the enemy, gave ear
to demons and snakes,

sold out the groom for silver,
cheated on him with another man,
gave the kiss of death on
his cheek, and sentenced him.

All the treasure in the world
so brightly, thirty pieces of
silver shining—tell me,
what’s the price you seek?

I never knew until now that
every kiss she gave was a
kiss of death, and each kiss
sucked away my vitality,

drained me like Cate Beckinsale
in Underworld, a vampire stealing
my life and breath, stealing
everything I have to give—

she is not the Other, demanding
all my finite resource to satisfy
an infinite need because she didn’t
demand—she only took, stole.

The betrayal is sharper than any
two-edged sword, splitting me in
half, eviscerating me, pulling
me apart at my seams, gouging

out my eyes, digging out
my kidneys and liver, rending out
my heart, preparing a human sacrifice
out of me, giving me to the

Pharisees, letting me be taken by
the Romans, innocent before
Pontius but guilty before the people,
and after being condemned

she whips my back herself, the
cat-o-nine-tails tearing my back
like paper being ripped apart,
and she places the crown of

thorns upon my brow, whispers,
“My king,” mocking me as if I
was never her king, forces me to
carry my anger and my cross

to the hill of the skull, where
she drives in the nails herself—
one in each of my wrists and
one through my feet—

she hauls the cross upright
where I slowly suffocate
unless I painfully push myself up
on the nails, but she already

broke my legs before I could do
that—and I know I have done wrong,
and I am sorry for what I did,
but crucifying me to absolve your

guilt is still far worse than anything
I did, and I don’t know if I have
the strength to show you love and
to forgive as the One

Who actually died on the cross showed
love and mercy, granting mercy
to all no matter how great a sin
they committed, but as for me

I hope you rot in the icy breath
of one of the mouths of Lucifer
in the deepest abyss of the last
ring of hell next to Judas

 

Tags: Sad, Depressing, Confused, Pain, Dark,