"How do I love thee?? Let me count the ways." Then somehow, you forget math. You forget sound. You forget. Some words best unspoken, but the silence breaks my soul. Like waiting for rain in a drought: useless. All the things, once AND twice, bring me to hell and back. The one place you swore to never go seems to be the only place that we know. As the lifetime promised circles the drain, I find the only thing that will bring me to shore. The undertow takes me back, but only for a moment. For now I know, arithmetic will save my soul.
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...
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