That sick, twisted fit

That sick, twisted fit
so thrilled we found
has been cut clear and quick
into sacred ground
where we vowed that we cared
what we came here for.
I'm not sure about us anymore.

I'm not sure about any of this.
The cross you bare like a weapon
engraved, embossed - I'm meant
to recoil from? I suppose

it is.

I suppose you think you've won.
I suppose you have.
I suppose it's war.
I'm not sure about us any more.

You can arch your back you can aim
your hips, you can rock and writhe
and depend on it, well if the you fits
I will wear and bear
up as well as you wish,
and whom shall care?

I was glad amazed
to discover your tracks.
To believe we fit
and pretend to match,
but as perfect as we've
never seen before,
I'm not sure about us any more