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I wonder why you make that face.
That face of heartbreak as you hold that cross to your chest, that bible to your robes. That dark of your skin so pristine in the rising sun. Didn’t our skins look so beautiful when we laid in your bed? The pales hues of my skin wrapped in your arms, your breathe buried in my neck. Was this because another priest saw you curled up with me? Or was it because your scriptures became more important than my human life?
I have so many questions as my ripped nightgown, my infected septic body is hailed on this cross, my arms behind the wooden stake, my legs tightly and straightly secured, the blood between them dried long before I was dragged here. Tell me, with your sad eyes was it really worth shoving a wooden pole inside me to ensure I am a witch? If I died, if I lived. My fate was the same.
So tell me as the fire is engulfing me, why do you look like your heartaches? Why do you look like you’ll fall apart……… Why do your lips quiver and you wrists bleed?
Why is my final visions before the pain of burning kills me………… is your blood hitting the stone floor beneath me. Did you always plan to die beneath my feet? Ah, you stupid boy that I loved. Why do you die with me?
