It requires us to take a match and strike it against our
hearts and let our blood ignite. Our bodies will begin to heat up in a way that
radiates the same warmth when a stranger stops to help us fix our flat tire. Or
that man that sits on a bench next to us: he lights a cigarette, takes a puff,
and asks us what we are thinking about. We tell him nothing and he cares enough
to say “bullshit.” Or that lover that takes the time to pick out all of the
raisins in the trail mix, because we don’t like them, even though he or she
does. Oh, it means the world when we sacrifice a little of our time to acknowledge
each other the best we can. Little did we know, it only takes a small dose of love
to cure a large life of loneliness.
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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