We are fighting about religion.
You ask me when I lost my faith in God.
I see myself, ****** lipped and angry,
ask you why it should matter.
At this point, I shake to the corner of your bed,
and you are crying, your black hair leaking,
you never expected me to judge you for being a Mormon.
I tell you,
you are the first boy I ever loved who believes in God.
You grab my hands, twist them under your blankets,
ask me if I've ever felt God lean quietly the way you do every morning.
So I pray with you.
Leave your house.
Don't tell you I am trying to bend the crucifixes in your mind.