Virgin

Your sun rose
from the alabaster of your neck,
drowned my killing moon
in such a brilliance.
Your gold hair splashed
across my night-bleached face.
Your eyes streamed blue,
drowned my pitiful red.
Far from my slaking,
it was the coronation of your flesh,
less the hour of the dead
than gilded morning
in which the crystal portals
of your beauty gleaned.
And my hideousness
fell back, blood-soaked,
into its hideous shadow.
You were supreme.
You were glorious.
For a moment,
I believed I had a soul,
not just a hunger.