Run From My God

Your face is bleeding. The blood thick and shiny like red pomegranate juice running down your cheek and painting your lips like a perverse rouge. Your tears have mixed with the blood as you fold in half and collapse onto the platform. You were right; you knew this is where you would fall with all these glassy-eyed hordes looking on in vague horror. You were right.

Only I would bend down to clean the fear off of you face and close up the wounds. You, however, would not let me touch you. Held your hands up over your face and screamed. Closed your eyes like looking upon my face was looking upon the sun. Like you were breathing in my hair and it was fire. Like I would burn you if I touched your bare skin. You screamed, "You are the dawn! I saw you creeping over the horizon and I have feared and hated you! I will run from your blinding god! Your shining face of god..."

I am not of the treacherous sex but I think you believe I am. Why else would you not let me brush the blood from you eyes and cradle you in my arms? I could stop this but you will not let me. I could drive these hordes away. Force them from the circle they have formed around you to hold you here. They enjoy watching you bleed. Licking their lips for a taste you; they are going to consume you if you turn your back to them. These are sharped-teethed devours hiding in the crowd; circling for a chance to strike. To lick that blood from you forehead until you can no longer move. This is a trap.

If you will not let me touch you I have no choice. I have no choice but to walk away. To leave you in the hands of these giggling psychopaths who will stroke your hair, whisper sweet sugar into your ears, kiss your eyes and drive their fists into your chest searching for your heart. I could have stopped this but now have no choice but to walk into this dawn of my god and become the fire that lights the world with the shining eyes of my soundless devotion to your salvation. I have no choice.