Whore of Babylon

I’m standing in a cornfield with my hair on fire.

My mouth is full of the blood of the saints.

(Did you make me drink it?)

I watch you with eyes black as sin,

while wondering, “Can Christ see any of this?”

But such a question is absurd.

I know he can

because you watch from a cross

that you nailed yourself to.

It’s a perversion of God.

If you act like you’re holy

by martyring yourself,

and I’m the one burning,

then it must be true

even though you set me ablaze.

Notes:

Had to write this for my creative writing class. I've never really written much poetry but I think I'm going to start getting into it more.