Holied Saint In Ropes
My body hungers for you
Your hands around my neck
Your teeth buried in my skin
The elegant ritual of it all
And usually I am terrified of doing everything wrong
Saying wrong words that will end this love
But here I please you – and how I long to please you
It’s burning in my throat
Tears and your name and
Yes please, just touch me again
Like a saint in holy ecstasy

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This Hairshirt Is For You
I wanted you next to my thighs like a cilice
Metal cut into my body
Your nails on my back
I wanted you across my body
Like a hairshirt
But with your fingers trailing my spine
My nipples and my stomach
I would let you hurt me – a sacrifice to get me into heaven
For I have been a bad girl in this life
My guilt can not be taken away by a night in the confessional
It can only be relieved by you
Let me say a hail mary on my knees before you
Or an our father between your legs
Will this make me a better person?
Or should I wear chains and flog myself?
As I put together a list of penance, where does the hairshirt lay?
This hairshirt is for you.

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Abigail Eckstine (They/she)
Abigail Eckstine is a 25-year-old queer writer of novels and poetry, parent-to-be, and the founder of Cauldron Anthology. Most recently they have been published in Catatonic Daughters and Alternate Route. You can find them on Twitter @whimsywriter3.