Another dusk came as he laid in his coffin, dreaming: a nightmare that he once lived but failed to breathe. He loved no one. He didn't know how. He never cared to. Didn't learn love as a kid. And so, no one loved him. How could they? He lived too busy in sin to be in love or loved. Now, forever in death, he lie restless full of hate, stuck in the earth, wondering if he were in heaven or hell, rotting and rotting as Death became him. Death was him. A dirty soul. His fate was now the meat of worms.
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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