This article is written by a student writer from the Her Campus at Chapel Hill chapter.
praise be to the birth
of lavender, the slaughter
of a decaying
godliness still lingering
in the cold, sinister air.
silence! for our god
must rest; her genesis
is our lullaby.
for if she wakes she becomes
the harbinger of stained sex.
her skin is gorgeous.
its radiant purple glow
beckoning the dead
to partake in our fragile
cult of queer delirium.
pause! the interlude
is here! that space full of ghosts,
astray heartthrobs who
left their underground homes to
see the discolored faces of
lovers, alive and
suffering. but wait! our god
is everlasting!
her touch the autograph of
sappho, an embellishment.