I fell in love with God when I was five. I knew who He was before this, but until the day I fell in love He was just a friend my mom told me about, like Santa, or Peter Pan. I fell in love with God at the age of five, when my brother tried to commit suicide at the age of nine by playing tug-a-war between a jumprope and his neck. Thankfully God stepped in through my mom and I can safely say that I love my brother to this day. Even though he doesn’t believe in God anymore.
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I have loved God through every moment of the day, even when I thought God hated me for being a ***, or I guess a half-***. A *** in some way. The way that I thought I was gay but I couldn’t forget that gays were bad and that I still knew that someday I just might fall in love with the girl sitting in my English class, or the girl I went on three dates with and each time I saw her I realized I was smiling even before she reached the door. I still loved God even though people told me that a *** could never go to heaven, but I wanted heaven. It wasn’t until I prayed and prayed for months, and weeks, and days for God to take the bit of gay I had away that I realized I loved God and He loved me anyways. I don’t pray for my fagness anymore, even though I hear people say ****** and I hear the devil whispering my name and all I can say is “God, let me remember my true name which is love and love and love and love”.
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I’ve always loved God, but I’ve been ignoring His calls lately. He speaks to me late at night when I’m in bed alone with just me, my sadness, and thoughts that are very ungodly, and I hear Him whispering lullabies to me. There are many times when I tell Him to skip this song. My friends tell me God isn’t real, my brother says God isn’t real, the boys I kissed, and the girls I kissed say God isn’t real and I don’t know how to tell them otherwise. I don’t know how to tell them that God is right there and here and in my heart and theirs and that He loves and loves and loves and loves and loves.
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But then I finish writing up a letter I save for the times I whisper to myself that I want to meet God, even though God says His home isn’t ready for me yet, and I say “God, don’t worry I don’t mind the mess”. But He tells me it’s not the mess that He’s not ready for and I say God show me love and love and love and love and love.
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I shred the letter before I love and love and love and love myself to death.
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For God so loved the world and He loves me and I love Him and that’s love and love and love and love and love.

your eyes seem to carry volumes.
deep set inside your sockets, flecked
with fire-light shadows and deep red ocre.

some would see this and think of romance.
your breath traveling against my chin and warming my jawline with humidity. a moaning similar
to the shriek of jungle birds and hoots of primates.

they would see your hand grabbing at my side, and see morning glory vines. your fingertips flashing bright orange similar to honeysuckle.
do you think they see the bruises?

I wonder just how often you weave your love poems into your teeth
when you bite into me.
when you take my flesh into yourself and devour my peace
like a cut from sweet, fruity flesh.
does my submission satisfy you?

or do you have these wild nights with the others?
do you go
out on streets and flash your smile?
do you let your fingers drip down sweet flesh laced with salt and lime juice?
do they open up to you more
willingly?
or do you take their silence as
invitation as well?

from the first moment your
geode lips scrape against my body,
until I am filled with a satisfaction
all your own.
I count three-hundred-and-thirty
seconds.
and during that time the cosmos breath,

and the stars continue to whisper
“goodnight”.

The smell of bleach is overwhelming,
but my mother always liked the smell.
She would mix bleach with a splash of lemon and the smell of sickly citrus would
drift through the house.
She would spend hours on the floor, scrubbing
each baseboard and kitchen tile.
Each swish of the mop would bring my mother
closer to God.
But for me, the fumes seemed to shake my mind and cause each ridge in my brain
to sweat.
My head succumbing to the pressure of finding my home
sterilized,
like some hospital.

Bleach burns. Once I let my hand slip into that lemon-scented pail,
feeling the itch rise up my wrist.
It felt similar to the Holy Spirit rising through my
chest during each Sunday service.
An antiseptic,
a decontaminate, something that desensitized and purified.
So, I began to rub my hands, with a spiritual fever,
letting my skin flake from each coat of
lemon-scented cleanliness.
But somehow, I never felt clean enough.

I never felt sanctified.

I like to think that I’m dangerous. That I’m powerful enough to be feared - that my kindness is a gift for others - that if I chose, I could bury those around me in rubble.

But oftentimes, I feel like I’m more of a danger to myself than others. My thoughts being hiccups of interrupting fear. Each thought surfacing from some malicious screen-writer - is it my own voice or a more malignant author that has become an unearthly tenant. A priestly follower with intimate knowledge of my doubts. I suppose this could be some kind of a final confession.

I imagined fireflies swaying through my stomach the first time we met. These little living lights tumbling through my organs and illuminating my bones. The idea that I had this glowing light inside made me feel much calmer.

That was the first time. The night seemed perfect enough yet drawn out on a track that I had no control over. But for some reason I enjoyed it. Letting little fireflies take the lead instead of whatever things run inside my head. The perfection was comfortable but didn't leave me holding my breath.

When I tell secrets I feel sick. Nauseous and full of air that seems to tickle my spine and inflate my mind. I begin worrying about serious, unrealistic things.

The second time we met, I imagined my arms covered by spider webs. Thin candy floss of silk threads, attached far away to the horizon. I made sure to stay subdued, because I knew without these strings I would run to you and stay. I knew I would touch, and grab, and rub, and shake. I knew I would find myself entangled in much more complicated things then a spider's webs.

I feel pathetic wondering what to text. I feel homely wanting to see you, to let my fingers trail through your hair and feel you tense (I know how much you hate people touching your hair, but you still let me) and then relax like a cog on a gear dying down. I feel worried knowing just where you would place your hand on my chest and just how your fingers would wander.

I imagine myself covered in insects and creepy crawling things because such creatures don't seem like lovers of romance. I try to pretend that neither are we.

Although it seems to sting.

Sometimes it makes me want to choke. When I see girls in yellow sweaters and boys with aviator glasses feeling love under a fluorescent gas station light. When I see hangnails on holding hands, and when I see chipped-tooth smiles. It makes me wonder if I’ll ever feel something for anyone around me. I feel a connection with all these people who float around, yet I can never get attached. I can never make myself feel anything more than mediocre delight in knowing a person.

I see these couples who are revolving around one another like the cosmos and I am left buzzing around their romance like gnats around a bug-zapper. All I hear are electric vibrations that get louder the closer I get, and I wonder how far I can go without killing myself.