Sanctum Sanctorum

By Khushi Shah

I sit criss-cross applesauce in my bed,

and I wait for it to begin.

I saw another empty space left by you today

and I know what comes next will not be sleep.

I feel the Burning go from my eyes

to my throat and down to my stomach.

It stays there and simmers.

It moves around its frequent abode,

to see if anything has changed in its absence.

It has not.

It sears through my inner flesh,

beating and expanding and gurgling,

with all the zealousness

of a returning, victorious conqueror.

One whose victory was never in doubt.

The Burning is done exploring

my hollow cavities,

it wants to come back out,

to you.

It tries to climb up the

inside of my neck,

it pools into the corners of my mouth.

It catches on my breath.

I must leave the warmth of my covers,

the cold striking my body,

like father's whip.

I am tired, there is nothing

in me to fuel action, but I am forced

to move this vessel,

Empty of animation

as I drag myself to the waiting abyss

in my blue tiled bathroom.

I kneel in prayer,

the Burning in my cavities -

my divinely ordained penance -

almost there, almost purged.

I brace for my offering,

to get the Burning out,

my fingers clutching at the sticky porcelain,

my mouth open,

my guts pulsing,

my throat burning.

And, and, and, and -

nothing comes out.

This is your curse,

the misfortune you have

placed upon me.

You will not leave me to grow cold again,

and you will not take my Burning offerings.

I am stuck in this state of limbo.

The tiles hard against my knees,

my throat clenching

and my mouth wrenching,

open, and open, and open.

Waiting and waiting and waiting

for the Burning to come out,

for the prayer to be accepted -

so I may go back to my sensible, distant piety.

But you have refused me this,

so I am frozen at this shameful altar,

not allowed the dignity to suffer

and metamorphosise into a true devout.

Instead I remain frozen as a sinner,

my redemption denied.

By Khushi Shah