I cradle him to my chest
My baby
His body
Stare straight through the angel
Who told me this would be a blessing
Between my legs, there is now a wound
While she sits upon a seven-headed beast
Her silks and its skins stained with His scarlet
I, the mother of the savior
Draped in the black of my mourning
She, the mother of harlots
Drunken with the blood of the saints
The waters where she sits: multitudes, tongues
The waters where I sit: mine, broken
For Him, the cup of wrath
For the world, the cup of salvation
In her hand, the cup of fornication
Mine the cup – no, the manger
From which He first reached to hold my hand
Empty
“Whore,” I whisper to her
“So, I am the whore, but the kings I reign over are not?” she answers
She, I
I, she
The abomination is my reflection
About the Creator
Wen Xiaosheng
I'm a mad scientist - I mean, film critic and aspiring author who enjoys experimenting with multiple genres. If a vial of villains, a pinch of psychology, and a sprinkle of social commentary sound like your cup of tea, give me a shot.
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