Unholy with Eyes like Wolves

by Morgan Dante

She is a woman, but whether she is capable of terrible things, I cannot say.

As her long, precise fingers drape over my knuckles, and she inspects my wound, I think to myself, Erzsébet. Erzsébet, but no saint. I could still worship her.

Perhaps this is what draws me to her, after all. If one has a chance to kiss an angel, no matter how terrifying, or if you turn to salt or ash, wouldn’t you?

I’m not sure I want my soul saved anymore because as much as I love God, Christ, and Mother Mary, no prayer has felt as good as a fading heartbeat sloshing down my throat, reminding me that I can feel ecstasy.