Being Used

Used
Blood seeps from the sores of his feet
As he runs faster into the distance.
His hand clutches a crystal chalice,
Purer than any substance
Because it was virgin to man’s lips
And yet he sips
With a satisfying grin.

She wakes thirsty
Unable to find the chalice
Realizes she’s alone
And before surfacing, malice
Chastises her sin.
“But…I thought…you loved me.”





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