We
arrived at his apartment. It was on the
second floor. The apartment building had
a rustic, fire house sort of feel. It
was about four stories high with ruby red brick. The side walk had designated parking spots
for each apartment. He carried my
bags. I only had a carry on. He never did let me do much for myself. When he opened the door the first thing I saw
was the most beautiful apartment in the world.
It was very spacious. The hallway
to the living room had paintings, mirrors, and decorations that all seemed to
flow together like a river of perfect design.
Chris could not have put together this apartment. And he would never hire someone to design. A woman definitely designed this
apartment. Actually, a woman definitely
lived here. There was a purse on the
coffee table. Before I could finish my
thought, a tall slender black woman walked from the kitchen and lit up at the
sight of us two.
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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