I had a rough night. I don’t have a friend nor family in sight. I’m driving home, tank almost empty. I feeling pretty low, but I’m a little high. I come behind an ambulance, a woman is on a stretcher inside. She looks like she is barely holding on. Oxygen mask. Low breathing. Paramedics in panic. My heart cries for her and envies her. Tonight, one of us is going to hell and one of is not. I should have just driven around the ambulance, it was a four-lane. But, I just wanted to cruise behind at speed that pulled along like an umbilical cord. Attached. Because, in that moment me and that woman, both, were on our way home.
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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