Fear blossoms in my chest

a familiar rose – black instead of red.

Each petal a knife.

I cannot shake this chill

this fingernails on a chalkboard

vibration in my bones.

I feel the knife twist deeper and

cannot even bring myself

to gasp in pain. 

I am beyond surprise;

beyond shock.  I am simply

accustomed.

Your eyes smile as you lick my

blood from your blade

holding your knife in one hand

and your bible in another.

Scribe, pharisee, hypocrite!

Who has warned you to flee from the wrath to come?