The woods distorted our
reality and footed dusty trails muddled the way. Passioned trees undiscovered.
Sneaking through the bushes like fleas fleeting. Cruel, smart hidden insects. Moving
beyond rock beds into graveyards. Old metal molded, fearless dark, absent sun.
Conquered woods play away from rigid home, a place of protection enclosing the
imagination expanding the closeness between us. We were then children, we are
still now. Footprints remain in the woods…
It’s forgettable- the number of times I was called a “fucking faggot” as a kid. As a former child of god, I wasn’t expected to know what those words meant. I was taught that repentance was vital to achieving everlasting life. My momma made me go to church every Sunday. I said my prayers as I was told. But I eventually learned that Catholicism was never my sanctuary. Christianity was never my safe-haven. God never stopped the cheap shots. He never once prevented the harassment or pure embarrassment that I felt from the words of my “kin in Christ.” Now, picture me- a helpless faggot, blinded by the incandescent lights of an old catholic church. I was home from college spending Spring Break in my former hellscape. So, naturally, my momma yet again made me go to church. This time, on a Wednesday. It was Ash Wednesday. When I was among the folks from home, I felt out of place. So much that I’d imagine camouflaging myself. Like saber-tooth in hiding. But the difference? I had a far more i
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