There's an itch under my skin, intangible and writhing. It burns in my heart: pumping, thumping, aching, ravenous for my trust. A serpent would expose itself; you are reclusive and stinging. What are fangs compared to this silent suffocation? Do you fear me, or is it time that you're biding? Could it be both?

I'm a dog with teeth embedded in a mangled hand. I am terror-stricken, unmoored, skeptical of intent. I twist my jaw and pierce again. My canine goes through your palm. Is your flesh my communion, your blood a fermented wine? Does it not intoxicate my senses, lapping wounds with a coarse tongue, with blunt lips, with relentless thought? It's almost intimate, our shared depravity, our desperation to be heard and believed. You plead with me to question if you exist. I can hardly bother.

But you're under my skin and you won't stop prodding, won't stop demanding answers. Your brows are furrowed, face contorted and as twisted as what festers within. You clasp my hands together and you demand that I pray. It'll grant me some solace, you say, but your mouth is coated in fool's gold. You declare your touch is honest, a gift to humankind. We're on the precipice of demise, and your followers have gone astray.

But none of that matters, when I strip away the pretense, you are nothing at all. That doesn't stop those incessant howls proclaiming your might and brilliance; the agony of preachers who cannot stand difference, who cannot tolerate apathy and incredulity. I don't think you'll ever stop screaming into deaf ears; we're all inclined toward blindness rather than seeing clearly. In the end, you're just as fallible.