I never really learned how to pray because silence usually speaks louder than the actual sermon.
And the bullets of my heart don't bleed like you think they should.
Instead, they melt.
They melt like ice cream set out in the hot desert sun.
Melt like ice clamped between my fists..
My fists..
The ones that explode and scream louder than this sermon.
God, don't look at me like that.
Your pupils look like firing bullets, knocking us out one by one saying "You can't come in because you never learned how to pray"
God, don't look at me like that. Your eyes are like a vortex of instability rolling our ground like an earth quake telling us to do more.
To be more.
To pray more.
Or we can't come in.
My fists stop the bullets and together our fists can make boulders.
Knocking down our insecurities one by one by one
If we don't make it in, that's okay because our fists will turn into butterflies
and our hearts will turn into lions
and our bones will turn into the infrastructure of Hell
Because that's what the preacher told me.
Preacher, don't look at me like that.
Don't shake your hear at my appearance.
Just because I have unnatural colors in my hair doesn't make me any less of a person than you.
Just because I put color on my eyelids and my skirt is above my knees and maybe I have a few holes in my jeans
doesn't make me any less of a person than you.
So don't look at me like that.