When they say we can’t but
we can: happiness encapsulated in time: every good road taken has been taken:
people who were far away remain close: Thanksgiving diner served every Sunday:
pulses of fabric knitted in unison: music stretched along the horizon: directions
mended by similar scars: bolted fingers bonded by leaves: love built in a rock
formation: he can: she can: they can: I can: you can: we can…
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 mo...
Comments
Post a Comment