Why do I feel pg13 in a rated R world?? Who made this self-deprecating, loner laying in his bed on a Saturday night?? For the answers are lost just as my mind races to the start. And the slight, smug smile that comes to my lips is not from you. It's from me. Of how I felt, which, by definition, has nothing to do with you. And as the battery on my netflixing iPad dies, I'm painfully reminded of one thing: if I don't experience the world, I'll only write what I read. And who needs another mind numbing saga, when you can have glitter??
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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