One more second could be too much. One less second could be not enough. I’ve reached the mountain top only to find that there is still more climb. Perseverance will be my manifest of what’s to come. The last few seconds of the race are upon me. I reach my hands up and call to Papa for deliverance. Guiding me to the top with effortless ease. He will show me the way and give me the strength. The strength I never knew I possessed. Finally passing the ribbon with my chest. I’ve made it. No thanks to anyone but Papa. Or at least that’s what I’m told….
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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