I meant it not this way but the tears just flow and my makeup smearing
all the more, leaving behind that familiar filthy residue. I may have
begun to drive myself away, dragging you down as well. But it's done,
I've flipped the switch and now it's dark once more. How painful is the
music to my ears, I can't stand to be alone in it, yet here I am again. I
pray you fly back and safely and warmly to me, though I fear I've dug
the grave too deeply. As the dirt shifts within my soul, I choke on
those loving words I'd meant for you. All the fragments of
light I see becoming smaller and I wish to be near you in your embrace
that might make me feel the warmth I'm missing. And in reality, I doubt
I'd breathe another breath without you. So come hither and quickly
soothe my dying heart, you are the only cure I know. I cry and cry
again, come hither to heal and love me. Come hither and help me dry my
tears.
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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