Hymn of Transgression

Hail, Mother of God, queen of my shame,
you soil me deeply, and yet, I call your name.
Your touch is a sacrament, both bitter and sweet,
a holy desecration that pulls me to my knees.

You lick the wounds of my forbidden desires,
stoking the coals of a thousand wild fires.
We dine on what’s unholy, in daylight's gleam,
sipping sin from porcelain cups, a twisted dream.

Is this devotion or damnation I seek?
I tremble at your touch, yet it makes me weak.
The lines between prayer and pleasure blur,
as you sanctify the sinner and redeem the cur.

A feast of guilt, a communion of lust,
your hands an altar, your voice a thrust
of salvation that breaks me, remakes me whole—
the martyrdom of body, the savior of soul.

In your embrace, I find both curse and cure,
a love that is tainted, yet achingly pure.
For when I kneel at your sacred shrine,
I find the divine in what’s profane,
and worship you as both sinner and saint.