For he is born from me

Deformed and demented, crawling on all fours. A burnt ruse coloring my face. The bottles of life hang high on the ceiling as my back breaks and he is born with his one eye cursed from the heat of my womb and the other deceptious and twisting and the ruddy colors of his skin. The knots of his hair hang low as he emerges and stands on me. They break dishes with their palms stuck together, knees ripped and broken, eyes blind and divine. He walks over me and the sky rips apart after the sinfull fortnite and all hell breaks loose. The beading stones dont help you now, choking on them is your best bet. Disturbed and destroyed, crawling towards you mother. My white dress and eyes, my white teeth and wings, my plum body and I, as he stands over me and walks over me, for he is born from me.