I am your Receptacle
Confessional.
Blue haired mini priestess
You only remember
When you need to be forgiven.
I am an Object of Wisdom.
Inhuman in my role,
I do not feel me or you
Nor have a pulse
Outside of the moments I
Occur: I do not exist.
You have only vague awareness
Of the need for my approval,
I am a Priestess; after all.
And into Me you can dump
The shards of your Sin
Without repercussion
Without human blood.
when somewhere in your
latent Simmering morality
You have an epiphany
Apologetic and triumphant,
I need only pat you on the head
And smile
And your vindication will swell you
To new depths of narcissism.