I fell all the way down. And now there is no one to pick me up. Pick the pieces up. I'll have to leave some there. For some stranger to walk on without knowing the disrespect they are committing. I can only fit so much in my hands. The rest will have to stay. The next person will just have to deal with the parts I managed to salvage. As for the rest, maybe it's where it belongs. We all survive with missing parts. They chip away: little by little. I'll just have to learn to survive with just about nothing. And if one day you find a broken part scurrying in the wind, just leave it be. It's better to be a part of the world than to be part of nothing.
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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