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Trudging beneath the bright Cheshire grin
This dear heart - no smile to be found within

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I play god to the atheists in my head,
my proclamations of who is worthy
      and who is not
falling on deaf ears
that belong to the mistresses
      and masters of my soul
gorging themselves on the banquet
of my body;
I am the serf that crawls on hands and knees
picking up the gristle they spit out,
though I could be high priestess or physician
to save and heal the dying and the broken -
which is part and all
of me -

instead I find
the fist in which my heart is clenched,
the fingers that bore into my brain,
the heel beneath which my spirit writhes,
are all my own ...

Not just god,
I play also judge and jury
to the murderer that I am,
and the eternal jailor of
the prisoner that is
me.