Last goodbyes
The tightrope that I walked
And the sidelines which we chalked
Simple pleasures from clever treasures
Measured our love by a single feather
Cutting ties
Your pure soul pulls the tears
That calm my inner sinner
A whisper that farms my fears
Our fingers stroke the trigger
Empty eyes
Awoken by your makeup upon chest
A vivid dream invaded my rest
Drag me to hell so I can sleep
Burn me alive with the secrets we keep
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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