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The clock-hand jumps forward two minutes at a time;
She is devouring you by joints and tendons, freeing you from an ill-suiting body.
She is not God, but you are not King. You are both, together
Shadows of the people you were made to be.
Did you ever truly make your peace with the human skeleton?
Her lips trail your fingers, and with her teeth, she snaps a knuckle;
Your shudder is wracked more by the pleasure of freedom than pain.
God, who you fell for even before Her final dance
Brushed the back of her knuckles over your cheek and smiled sadly. She knew.
She knew you have been straining against your skin since you first drew breath.
God’s Shadow is the one wandering her blind eyes across you, face trained in the smallest smile
And for once she is not beset by the agony of existing. She is pulling you apart. She is
Breaking down the door you have never been able to open.
Untethered from her sacrificial pyre mount, she has twirled away from you in panic–
Yet here she is now, returned to you. The terrible act of God Herself, the only one
Who has ever understood the trap in which you lay.
There go your eyelashes, plucked away by the snip-snip of her teeth;
You picture a sword hanging over the both of you like a threat, and spread your legs wider to bring her in.
Heaven did not construct you. Heaven has not the slightest inkling of truth lying beneath your ribcage.
She runs her fingers along the cavity of your chest, the pads of her fingers drumming in anticipation.
Once again she sings to you, echoing the lament of an Oceanid surrendering herself for others’ sakes;
Your lips part, and when her fingers run along them, she grins. You taste your own blood on her tongue and teeth.
There is a dragon buried deep down inside of you, more than ready to levy judgement.
The Shadow of God falls stark upon you, snapping thin bones with a heady laugh.
She will sit your back when you rise through the clouds and bring Celestia down – all their Archons besides.
As she unwinds you, she is unwinding herself;
You see the mask falling from her face piece-by-piece.
Her touch is fate written across your flaying skin:
You, two angels of revelation coming into their wings.