when i was six, / i scooped prayer into my palms, sipped / jesus’ sweat out of a soju bottle ten / years after. the prayer screamed / under my skin
November 19, 2019
lowercase g: if i’m gonna be super honest, i hated this
me: you wouldn’t if you caught all the metaphors
lowercase g: no i did i just don’t like them
me: you should learn to take criticism
me: who do you think you are?
me: jesus fuckingchrist
me: you deserved it
me: you’re not
& his personas: father/son/holy ghost
to own a body tinfoiled in another’s
flesh—i was not ready to commit
the sin of being born. when i was six,
i scooped prayer into my palms, sipped
jesus’ sweat out of a soju bottle ten
years after. the prayer screamed
under my skin. it grew mad for a vessel
to gentrify, a creature skilled in salting
the synapses of children. how dare
you rinse away their freedom. the residue
a genesis of heavy lids or landscape
that bleeds teeth. reverse crucifixion
replays in my dreams as christian radio
rents out the brain. this is an open/
ended cry, lucifer’s self-insert psalm.
it’s a rough draft. or a fanfiction.
it has been written out according
to your fantasy. my mom’s friends
keep telling her to give christian
mingle a chance. my prayer promises
cold. will it save me before i regret
vacating my sanctity? douse me
in holy water? i wonder what kind
of shampoo god uses,
if he prefers morning showers
or plans to shower tonight
when we burn hymn books & cut
away gabriel’s marble feet, angel heads
rolling off statues, porcelain crushed to
compost. let’s baptize bugs against
their will. let lightning’s belly
illume the stained mother marys.
let’s strain light & leave
the church be: a glassen house
better built without walls. they serve
no purpose, god smiles. he’s talking
about my hands. how rare they fold.
how they needn’t—for anyone.
how light traps & diminishes
like a runaway bride on times square
throwing her bouquet to whoever’s
foolish enough to want it.