In your darkest hours it spreads you out and in all your feebleness, infects you. I never thought pain could be so desirable until I laid my chest upon you. I cut it out, sucked it in, and patted it dry. As you sleep, it awakens and touches me with beckoning eyes as I stare into insanity. Hurting me intensely, but I can't let go, I need it to flow. Releasing me, it breaks you. How sadly I whispered as you flickered out and dragged me through. And now it's a part of me, leaving only your memory to bleed.
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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