By Carson Sandell
bluestone flesh stitched alive,
mullers enameled in mica, he watches
you dance on the concept of death with a stare
glazed in graveyard fog. his fingers, pitchfork
stiff, sought guidance from townsfolk
who prayed for convention and preyed
on whoever defied it. oh, Victor, he craved warmth,
not flame to fascia: you maimed hope. a hermit
sutured his decay, led his tongue to language,
taught him to break bread, not necks.
he chose life with another man. and you chose
to create life with one. if townsfolk found this truth
your heart would taste crucifix splinters.
his loneliness was cured, after all, a monster’s
love is still love. oh, but you equated conformity
to comfort. electrified another corpse to consciousness.
upon rebirth, she rejected him. it’s vile how you created
a woman for the pleasure of man. how evil
the narrowness you assign to desire. you tore him
from the one man who didn’t want his skin seared
on the stake. though at the climax of his sorrow,
he electrified all, except you, Victor. he won’t
be the last lover of shadows. from windmill, wedding,
to wake, he surrendered warmth.
Carson Sandell (they/them) is a queer trans poet from San Jose, CA. They are a 4th Creative Writing undergraduate at University of California, Riverside. Outside of academia Carson is also Poetry Reader for Split Lip Magazine and Poetry Editor at Poetry is Currency Magazine. Most nights you will find them at home reading or writing over a glass of wine.
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