Forgive me for the ink that strains your innocent purity with words I don't even understand.
Pick up your rubber and erase my right hand with swift flick of the wrist
and a gentle caress for you cannot forgive me for what I have done,
but I can.
Stone me. Cut off my hand and stone me.
Let the blood drip like my wasted children that come and go with each
waning moon,
as the only thing that grows within me is love.
Open up the gates of hell and toss me like Mary Madeline tossed him,
and let me burn; but God, you play with fire
as I will only burn for her so nail me to the cross with my convent robe
and watch her kiss my feet and continue up to the heavens.
You can forgive me for opening my legs but you cannot nail them
shut, and you cannot cleanse my **** with salt from your narcissistic
***** that seeps between thighs in an unconsented **** of fertility.
Eve may have eaten the fruit of they womb but you cannot throw me out
the garden of Eden and you cannot tell me not to love when my heart
smells her sweet flower.
Nor can you curse our open mouths for taking a taste.
Forgive me Lord,
for I do not know what I am saying, and only say the words and I shall be
healed.
Malevolent God, this finger is for you.
But benevolent God, you gave me hands so I can make her tea
when she is dreaming,
and you gave me a heart that will not stop beating at the sight of her
sneakers on the floor.
Her eyes are like crumpets, God.
They make my mouth wet and my lips moist
and cover me in cotton blankets, just like 1993 when icicles clung to the
rooftops like I cling to her waist when she is sighing.
You made the ocean just so I can see her in a bikini.
It does't matter if she covers the curves of her thighs in shorts,
or her soft ******* in a shirt.
The point is you tried, and my God did you craft something magnificent.
Forgive me God, as I did not believe you existed till the day she said
I love you.
I smiled like second grade when I found a muffin in my lunchbox
and I ate it like my life depended on it, as if I don't have her
I fear I might explode.
But unlike 2nd grade each day I open my lunchbox and I find her
next to my sandwiches.
You made us like peanut butter and jelly.
So forgive me Lord, but I refuse to believe that you
condemn
something so perfect
as this love.