Apocalypse of Jude

From far above, the world reveals the shape of its figure in all its rises and falls, and how it captures the early morning shadows of the clouds moving in a regularity along their way towards the ocean. On the street Mae is walking, defacing herself in a torrent of self torment.

/i became exactly what my name means last night/ /i practically devoured him/ /i couldnt stop/ /couldnt even see anyone else/ /you frenzied me for him alone/ /what have you made me do my lord/

She runs her hands through her black, tired and knotted hair. Her fingers are getting stuck, aggravating her such that she jerks them through.

/why jude/ /what has he got to do with all of this/ /where is this in the plan of drawing me closer to caul/ /he must hate me now/ /i dont understand/ /i dont understand/ /why would you make me do that/

The pain from wrenching her hair wells her eyes, and the frustration is enough to trip her tears. She runs into the small pine grove shouldering the park she is walking by, and falls to her knees, the softness of the brown needles beneath breaking her fall. Around her the trees guide the wind and birdsong softly through their interwoven branches while her hands cover her face, muffling the convulsive heaves of emotional energy leaving her bloodstream, and being pulled out of the nerves, to be exorcised in these saltwater offerings that burn the ground where they drip, drop, drip, drop, drop drop unappeased.