I cannot shake the weight of what was relayed to me; the sheer, casual callousness of it. It's not a crisis of conscience for them - it's just another Sunday, and their goodness is just a marketing tool.

They sit among us, even eyeing those in the pews, not praying, but habitually conducting a cold financial and psychological audit, preying for deep pockets and easy prey.

Their shameless assumption that everything is fair game to them is just so stomach-turning. To them, everyone else exists only to be used, shorn, or killed; they are both greedy and sadistic.

But what truly sickens me is their manufactured kindness and forced intimacy used just to get close enough to strike. They strive to maintain that lullaby-like tone even as they gut their victims.

This is the deadliest of predators, draped in the softest, snatched wool.

Tape your eyes open if you must. Do not believe what you see, for that wool was never theirs; and do not believe what they tell you, for their truth is nothing but a polished distortion.

CONTENT WARNING

This is not your typical little lamb nursery rhyme, but a violent and visceral creative expression of a shorn lamb. Reader discretion is advised. You can stop reading here in case it might be uncomfortable for you. As long as you bear this in mind: not everyone with a gentle voice is on your side.

Photo by Little Annabell on Unsplash

oh, little lamb
how adorable art thou

how I adore thy light
i want to bask in it
before i smother it out

that I can't help myself
but to lay my blade on thee
behind the closed doors
away from the eyes of the world

but surely
before the blood is drawn
from 'round thy slender neck
i shall shave thine beautiful wool
to make thy snatched fleece my own

while beholding as thou dost shiver
in thy nakedness.
beholding how shame
doth bring rosiness to thy cheeks

oh, little lamb
how tender is thy voice
I long to grip thy throat so tight
and leave thee with no air
for I must hush thy words
lest thy truth contradicteth mine

thou shalt need some rocks down thy throat
because thou'lt need an anchor
when I drown thee in the murky depths

oh, little lamb
thy beating heart is so vibrant
that it pricks me in my kingdom from this high seat
like a splinter in my flesh
just to know there is still warm air in thy breath

I desire to smite thee
right in thy breast
to drain thine essence dry
until thou hast naught left to give

oh, my little lamb
the game shall now begin
I await the slaughter
and the breaking of thy bones
I yearn to hear thy shriek of pain
until thou utterest no more sound

oh, my little lamb
thou knowest thou shalt bring me much delightness
knowing that I can kill thee so many times over

oh, my little lamb
i shall let thee sleep now. sleep, my dear

©Britt H.

Thank you for reading this.

More about the person behind the writing in My Introductory Post

If you’d like to support my writing — you can consider buying me a coffee here Any support holds immense significance for a disabled neurodivergent like me.