Killing what you love is okay

Saint Veronica has sought my face, rotting in her reserved pew;
but I watch these six piranhas pace and think of flesh as food.
A dozen times I've squatted here, bleating with the blackface ewes.
Gravity cracks me like a chiropractor and I think of hurting you.

Twenty-four seconds of holding my breath, Amens fell down my face,
and there and there at the carnal apex—O Lud o Lud o lud.
I am a bar of soap in the pillowcase.
I smell nicer than your sticky blood.