I am careful as I hold my faith—
its skin pulled taut, forbidden fruit,
a scarlet that could mutilate,
that could stain me in shades of shame.

It rests heavy in my hands,
its weight not mine, but theirs—
the murmurs cast like stones,
the sin they see where I see soul.

Each word I utter drips in red,
the taste sweet yet strange,
like something primal, nearly wrong,
a hunger that’s gentle yet uncontained.

They were not taught the quiet truths
of how the earth breathes beneath us all—
they know the taste of fear alone,
a fruit untouched, unknown, unloved.

Inside, there is love, obsessive, consuming,
a kind of worship raw and wild—
no robes, no altars, no pristine lines,
only this crimson, spilling and stained.

I am careful not to swallow whole,
not to lose myself in each dark bead,
yet the fruit’s allure lingers—
a dance of blood, of life, of need.

They say I worship shadows, beasts,
but how could they know the taste of light
bitter and sweet upon my tongue,
when I wear the stain of belief?
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