When I am cornered
with no escape from
human sewage seeping,
there is one hope only:
My saviour, Satan-sent.

She introduced herself to me
many tortures ago,
when I was in the depths
--in my feces, groveling.

What is this now before me,
from Dante's levels rising?
A ghastly angel!
To me she speaks:
"Jagged is my name."

Such strange beauty adorned in blood,
upward to me glides.
Her sad wings wrap around me
-porcelain face, it comforts.
Her left hand, dripping,
hands to me my opiate.

“A jagged blade it is.
It is a gift, my hand to yours.
It will serve you,
when you have need of
numbing your heart

when rent apart.”

“Use it wisely, child.
Hide it well away
from curious folk.”

With open hands I do receive;
the blade begins its work.
Jagged helps to
score the paths,
up and down my
skin, ruby-soaked.

Then sweet Morpheus
courses through me.
The suffering is banished.
The memory of that moment
of morbid mutilation,
has been washed away.

So Jagged parts her way with me,
after I'm laid down to drift.
She softly tucks my gift under me
-my teddy for me to cuddle.

She whispers, “I'll be near to you,
if you need a friend;
for another jagged moment lurks
--it's just around the bend.”

Fran Hinkle

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