Bacchante
What is a “real” woman anyways?
My kind whip their hair.
They claw at themselves.
They dance so violently and perfect
that you cannot comprehend.
They know all things, even the terrible,
hidden, secret, private, and personal.
They hunger for your flesh.
Pour your wine down their throats.
They will vomit blood to begin the sacrifice.
Their coming shakes mountains.
Sparks fly from their nails.