I often speak
of the holy:
the high and mighty
the hands that guide me-
because that stuff never leaves you
when your oldest memory
is writing stolen stories in the back pews
(next to you)
of the church that ****** me to Hell
just for living; for loving; for breathing.
And
I often speak
of the ink
under my skin-
how it beats
with the blood
of my veins
how it rots
the valleys of my brain
how it festers
in the edges of my eyes
(Besides,
I’ve always thought
leaky faucet eyes and flatlines
were better fitting for me anyway).
And with calligraphy nibs
for teeth
and nails-
the points beg
for the weight
of the word
and the worlds
I could make.
So don’t mind
the blushing lines
on my wrists
& stomach
& sides-
that’s just me scratching the surface.

And
I often speak of
the hell I faced
in the soft heaven of my bed,
and how you Holy Figures watched
and waited
with blind and prying eyes
for the answer to come to you
on a rusting silver platter.
And yet,
when I served the cause
to this wretched effect
bloodied and blessed as it was-
wrapped pretty and proper
in a note I wrote in deranged worry;
you wept,
painting me a monster
with the ink from
my own ****** letters.
So,
cast from above
like One before-
a glistening gold halo
turned to petty pyrite
(how fitting,
for a follower turned fool).

So,
I ask
your Heavens now:
when I came to you
with prayers
and pleads
heavy on my tired tongue
in the pews of your Holy House
made Hell,
did you ever think to hesitate
before you began
to point your jagged fingers
and other weapons of war
at the silent space
between the lines of my letters
(that weren’t even there)?
Or did you hate being wrong so much,
six years of ignorance
was the price
you were willing to pay?
Was it worth it,
my Holy Roots?