Bael Corrupts a Virgin

By Georgia Bowan

I was going to be famous, I was going to make babies.

I was going to burst out my skin just like Cain did. Ploughing through the fields that you lined with the maidens, you glared them all down until they crumbled into filth. I was going to be famous, I was going to make babies, I was going to claw off my scales and be naked. But you came in real hard, crawling up the walls in the night, with your face all white and painted. But you came in real hard, with your tongue in my mouth and the way that it tasted.

You came in, crawling up those fucking walls.

About to go dead evil, completely off the hook. No remorse for the fleshers and the flayers and the simple walkabouts with their nails grown too long (they go black, gather gunk). I get that look in my eye, the one that makes it look like they’re bulging so far out they’ll pop from their sockets. I get that taste for copper.

I was a psychic or a possibly deranged being. Something that had moulted its past skin, made anew. Body in possession of Bael, coursing through my arteries and leaking the acid into the trunk. There was the sound of the toilet flushing from the neighbour opposite my apartment, through the window I heard it. Someone is fucking down the hall, halfway through that sickly sweet release. And the newborn across from my building won’t stop crying, tiny lungs inflating like the condoms that should have been used. I hear everything.

When I get that freaky fucky with the glare and the temples that start to ache because I’m clenchin’, holding down my two thousand year-old meal, but it’s bubbling up in chunks. I won’t feel good again until I’m up inside you. Hot lead pouring over me I’m so damn angry, with that dead evil, completely off the hook, possibly deranged being I harbour. Machete or my fingernails, I will flay you. Sweet Fanny Adams never stood a chance, and neither did the Ripper, not with him on my tongue.