The Scapegoat

The blunt edge of the scissor blade 

barely penetrates the epidermis. 

The sting comes before the red— 

Streaks of lightning pave the way

for imminent roars of thunder. 

Seconds later, 

tiny beads of congealed crimson

 & pearlescent plasma

emerge from within vein-ravines.

The little spheres burst through

the claustrophobic capillaries—

buoying about the surface 

to catch their breaths. 

Like microcosms of crystal spheres,

they are imbued with 

futures foretold by druids,

impregnated with dreams

long gone rancid.

The globules mingle and merge into

pools of viscous fluid,

eventually trickling down

my forearm.

I have opened a wound between 

reality and dreams—

a portal connecting 

spirit with

mortal flesh.

The melodrama unfolding 

on the coliseum of my stratum corneum

is strangely endearing—

raindrops flowing

down a windowpane on a

stormy evening. 

Oedipus gorges his eyes—

I purge this body of my ancestor’s sins,

purifying my soul from the prophesies

programmed into my genetic code. 

Yet, but a self-fulfilling prophesy,

this Dionysian performance art 

involving bodily humours 

and faulty neurotransmitters 

only serves to materialise 

the very words they’ve prevised:

I’m attention-seeking and

manipulative—

utterly perverse and

pathetic. 

Do they not realise that

we are one and the same? 

They deride & condemn me

as they gorge themselves

on the blood of Christ.

In their festering brain 

marinating in kool-aid,

they believe that torture

& crucifixion of Yahweh’s son 

is the purest form of love,

while the blood I shed invokes 

a sinful, 

demonic,

curse.

Christ was the sacrificial lamb who was slain,

while I am the scapegoat doused in blame;

a vessel to seal away their 

unbearable—

irrevocable—

shame.