I long for asceticism.

I long to wear hair shirts, each time the lines scratch into my skin being reminded of the prayers I wove into my desire to be in connection with the divine.

I long to stare into the white, the red, the gold and the green as hooks let flesh give way to truth.

I long for my crown of thorns once more, my brow bleeding down with what weighs on my mind.

I long to hold candles up in the water, cry out to Shiva, cry out and let it all go.

I long to make my marque… to weave my own destiny beyond my flesh.

I open up, I give in, and I long… I long.