My relationship with God is like an ulcer.
I play with it with my tongue.
At times
I bite it just to feel something
Just to feel like I’m not imagining things

One day
         It burst
A polyp
         Inside me


The salt rushed around my mouth
A piece of skin. A tag. That’s what’s left of this
Misgrowth
A bullet wound left in my cheek
And I hear god whisper tongue is cheek
“I’ll come around again”