It's cloudy outside. The world is delineated in every detail. Every little shadow and line is accented sharply by the ominous thunder rumbling across the belly of the sky. The bits of color in the flowers reach but cannot leave much of a mark on the pervading gloom. The inside of the house is warm and well-lit, peaceful and serene. The laughter of carefree children echoes down through the centuries of its wooden frame. Hospitable, smelling of a home-cooked meal, one gazes through the glowing panes of glass and can only conjure memories of rustling skirts covered by wide aprons, full-chested mothers sweeping and elbow-deep in dough, scolding their children and wiping away their tears. The house now stands abandoned and empty, only dust and cobwebs covering the windows. Long ago and far away, I recognized the nostalgia of the times that came before as I look down the neon street, the first drops starting to hurtle down from the dark heavens above.
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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