At first, my soul was minimal. I existed within 3 vile chords resonating onyx-dust sounds off of bones.
Next, I ravaged my body with all things inorganic. I bled bleach, took on a new scent from meth squeezing out of my pores, & even lost a tooth.
Now that the man I had birthed my child with had gone, I bought a goat. I didn’t have anything to lose.
In a basket I gathered all I needed: sand from Hawaii ages ago, a dirty rag, & my butcher knife.
I also knocked back some Xanax for good measure.
I walked the goat- named Hera?- to the tree under which…the tree.
The rag went over Hera’s mouth. I couldn’t have her bleating.
I sloppily plunged the knife into her chest and cut around her heart, the one I’d took care to notice only a moment before.
With the heart in my hand, it was a reflex to paint a pentagram in the fresh dirt.
I tossed bloodied sand onto my sigil. Hail fell.
“Corpore, carnis, resurrectionem cum hostia…”
I wailed and wailed for my lost child. I would never stop cursing Satan or God…