Something I abhor,
Something I adore,
It was a basilisk’s stare
That kept me glued to my seat;
Actualities of saints,
And the slim purpose and design
Of contemplated suicide.
Aggressive, malformed, opinionated,
The dust beneath her dress as she twirls,
And the embodiment of Christ,
Captured on film and behind glass.
These relics like clipped nails.