Hothouse

On Sundays,
the woman wise enough to measure the amount of alcohol pours three
fingers of vodka into the bohemian wine glass that sits two feet away
from the kitchen countertop’s vast ledge. Her arms, fastened by her
perished lover’s (was there more than one?; she cannot remember),
cradle, are spasming, confined by unperceivable safety straps
crisscrossing her body. She takes a step back, unknowingly unfastening
the makeshift ghost lover’s seatbelt that carefully molds into her figure.
Once she ignorantly steps out of the confining cocoon, she stares at the
Holy Grail sitting two feet away from her. It sits frivolously, naïvely,
almost mockingly, unaware of the unholy damage it will do once taken
off its altar of damnation.

On Mondays,
the woman allows herself only two fingers of whiskey added to the
vodka. The goblet sits there, glittering and clear and stocked with
stale, yet purifying, vodka, silent and pleading, mutely thirsting for
the molten honey gold presented to it. She raises her hand, securely
clenching the whiskey above the wine glass, looking past her shoulder
and staring at her counters, before viciously dumping the heavenly
damned contents into the Grail. She looks back, scans the altar for
any spillage, glances at the cup, and nods, a heavy glaze of murkiness
traversing her eyes.

On Wednesdays,
the woman is high off her tears. The tear tracks left trailing from her
eyes have burned through her cheeks. Red, angry welts in the shape of
distressed static lines flow down her face, her lips trembling in stormy
turmoil. Her teeth bite through the skin and fat of her cheeks. It is not
blood that flows through her drooling mouth, but a blend of drool and
rancid whisky and stale vodka. Sluggishly, her eyes widen and shoot to
the chalice sitting upon its altar. Tempting, it is.

On Thursdays,
the woman is sitting on her heels, rocking back and forth and praying
to the cup. Every inch of skin is purple and blue and red and yellow and
grey and bruised.

On Saturdays,
the woman is naked, crawling to her restitution. The ghost lover’s
ripped seatbelt rests two feet behind her. On the floor, she lays pure.
Purple and blue and red and yellow and grey and bruised, she crawls.
Her knees are scraped and bloody, oozing whiskey and vodka from her
scraped knees.

On Sundays, again,
the woman is nude and sobbing.
On Sunday, sweat oozes from the woman’s pores, and holy water
drops from the woman’s tear ducts and she is wobbling on her feet. On
Sunday, she is reaching towards the cup, damned be the consequences.

On Sunday,
she grasps the bowl of the glass and chucks it towards her purple and
blue and red and yellow and grey and bruised chest. On Sunday, she
cradles the chalice like a baby to its mother.

On Sunday,
she sees her reflection in the vessel. She’s smirking, and purple and
blue and red and yellow and bruised are swirling under her skin. Black
tar leaks from her eyes. She frantically shakes her head and blinks. She
looks back at her reflection. She is still pure.

On Sunday,
she reaches in between the almost mountainous valley between her
breasts and rips into herself.

On Sunday,
she rips into herself, parting rib cages and stabbing organs.

On Sunday,
she pours the holy liquid into her being. Into every crevice of her soul,
it flows.