In the spirit of chagrin, there is a smell that stings the senses.
A fragrant melancholy erodes itself amid the atmosphere of my folly.
Lack of good sense, she smells of.
In the arabesque of zephyr from an open door it came in the form of.
A demon’s dance intent on delivering distress to its highest degree.
Tell me, woman of low virtue, how you came to be thus humiliated?
Was it the lies that condemned you?
The shame that enveloped you?
The sin that suffocated you?
The iniquitous knot of failure forming in the pit of you?
Yes
that’s it.
Eat this vexation—this torment on toast.
Morning, I deceive you.
Noon, I despise you.
Evening, I dash all of the things of His delight in you upon a stone.
Look at you.
Forget who He says you are.
He’s forgotten you.
As you bathe in these mortified toxins, I seethe in my destruction of you.
Your discomfort titillates me.
The loss of your dignity fastens the smile in the scales of my face.
Confess your chagrin spirit, child of Elohim, as I am ever fastened
to the lower extremity of your ankles.