A body
  --aloft a state of tranquility
posthumous jurisdiction
  of failed sanctity
pulling on triggers
  bound by religious testimonies

Do I have to force
  these confessions out of me?

I've run out of words
  to describe this iniquity...

Yet, it seems like...
  I've forgotten
That despite the beauty of my soliloquies...
  I am still not well

The water is not deep enough
  to house a village
My breathing too shallow
  to be considered devout

Should I force these words
  out of me?
Protest these cliche metaphors
  and punch the gut that claimed I couldn't?

I have written a thousand testimonies
  yet none are enough to remember my salvation
What remains of my body
  but the skin and bone found on my knees
    mapped the entirety of this blasphemous tragedy