Death Cult

Halloween was never a favourite day

for me

as a kid, or as an adult.

I never saw how a

stolen,

watered-down

commercialization

bastardization

could lend itself to as a 

favourite anything.

I know

I am

not always as able

to hear something

as I ought to be.

I should say

who cares,

it doesn’t matter.

Halloween all year?

An eyesore, I guess;

cringeworthy,

but harmless.

If someone wants 

to be Jack Skellington

and pretend

to be

Tim Burton, what’s it to me?

I also hate Christmas

and Christmas lights. 

I never get excited for any of that stuff.

Easter Bunny?
Leprechauns?

I want dragons swarming the sky,

so many that day turns to night.

Which holiday is that one?

Which holiday is about vampires and bloodletting?

Which one is about hunger strikes and self-mutilation?

When will my card about severing my ring finger arrive?

What about when I wear a hair shirt?

The scars I have from all my holidays

make a calendar of their own. 

My scars are a roadmap of my faith.

One day I’ll find something

big enough to hold my dreams,

a monument before which I can kneel,

and belief 

deep enough

every day calls for me to spill my blood.

I want a god

who wants me

bound

and gagged

and drowned.