today i walked west
but only for a couple of minutes before i reached the old church that i've lived next door to practically my entire life
it's from the '60s, and as soon as you walk in a sign is still hung in the entry that reads
"Colored Church" with a cross underneath
i always loved it here
it's small
cozy
with a ringing sense of familiarity
much reminiscent of the people who gather here every Sunday
really,
it's been my quiet place for a while
somedays i come just to bask in the uninterrupted silence that it offers
but most, i sit at the old, nearly crumbling piano that's slightly out of tune
at the very front
and i'll just play for hours
simply to get lost in the echos of the pitch that's just barely off, but that's not unlistenable
it's become somewhat of a sanctuary to me
and i'm probably crazy to seek solace in a place whose very nature, more times than not, tends to frighten me
but maybe everything that i fear
is what ultimately will bring me the most joy

at least that's what i will let myself believe

i lay in my bed typing this with one hand on my brand new laptop

i think it's getting bad again

i'm moving out in 19 days for college

i can't get the memories to leave me alone

my dad was the one who bought me this laptop as a gift for college

i can still feel the touches of the man who couldn't keep his hands
off of me
i will never be the same

my parents pay for EMDR therapy
it's expensive
it's not covered by insurance
i feel guilty

i feel like i ruined this family dynamic
we don't go to church anymore
church is where the man worked
church was where i suffered
the cold brick wall all the way at the back of the building
behind the pews
everyone's backs to me
as i stood in silence while
he ruined me

it's time to go to bed
maybe i'll feel better tomorrow

No, not a melting ***
you know, the kind you get in industrial kitchens:
heavy, stained, covered and sealed,
left to boil and bubble, leaving questions
about herbs and spices and what we’ve concealed.

No, not a melting ***
but a large, glass salad bowl, the kind you place
in the centre of a garden trestle table
glistening in the sunlight,
with two oversized dark wood serving spoons
and a glossy drizzle of vinaigrette dressing.

The glass revealing every shade
of green and black and red, yellow and white
teasing us with every crunch of each anticipated bite,
each variety and shape, inviting us to participate, to fill our plates
and in this feast of an adventure, to celebrate
what we are - together.

Anyone can enter your church
No matter what their age
Mine, well, you have to be legal
At least in the section that doesn't serve food

Yours smells of incense and candle wax
The air smells of wood polish
Mine has stale beer and on humid days
Remnants of cigars and cigarettes from years ago

We have windows that can open
But, most times they are painted shut
Yours, beautiful colors of glass
Images from the bible, glorious

You have a choir singing the grace of God
My place of worship has live bands once a month
Karaoke on Fridays with wanna be singers
Making us pray to God for it to end

You have pictures of Saints on your windows
And tapestries on the walls
The closest we have is posters of sports teams
And The St. Pauli girl promoting beer

You will never find me at your church
But, we may find you in ours on occasion
We don't have sacramental wine like you
But, we do have a larger drink menu for all

People come to your church to wash away their sins
Then a few hail Mary's and a Lord's Prayer
With us, they come to drown their sorrows
And our hail Mary's have bacon, 2 for 1 on Sunday

Our sky pilot will listen like your pastor
He doesn't judge unless you get too drunk
But, that's on him, not you
Your pastor won't judge, but, still gives penance

I know where I am Sunday
I know where you are too
Your church is not always open
Mine's good from 10 till 2

in a land where four languages are official
a church was named only in three; for the fourth
is the language of a weak and fragile faith
whose edicts are above the law of the land,
and whereof knowing a church's name is temptation
and the tempter the sinner and the tempted sinless;
a rock is evil for stumbling the weak,
and if truth offends the truthsayer dies,
and the thief blameless for the rich flaunts his gold;
thus protected by an unsheathed ****** sword
a faith strengthened with every tempter's death

As like when they were children
now they curtsy at the cross
Then all once they take their seats
and turn their gaze upon

The august priest in silken robes,
ornately trimmed and white
And urging them to prayer between the
readings and the rites

The man of god, his hands aloft
move practiced through the air
His winsome words bring ease upon
the crosses which they bear

His mirthful moans and dulcet tones
resounding through the chamber
By candlelight I then decide
To stay for the remainder

sometimes, i look at dainty strong marble effigies
of the ****** mary holding her birth-bloodied son
and wonder if some loves aren't meant for everyone.

chastity-locked inside my heart, there's a woman
who wears long sundresses and lives in the little mac and cheese potluck moments;
she prays her rosary and feels the warm arms
of her traditional husband who loves her as a duty.

as for jesus, well, he's a cheap plastic figurine
she bought from ebay and stuck on the dashboard of her car;
the heat melted his feet in a crucifixion of 2020
but he still stands, wobbly and shaky and commercialised.
when she travels, she prays to him for safety.

(she doesn't travel a lot. she's happy to be stagnant and pray for still waters every morning.)

who cares about my heart, though?
who loves unconditionally and always,
and sees through the rips of cartilage and crushed aorta -
who will look and look and look
and see me? sorry, see me? sorry, see me out.

sometimes, i want to be a child again;
cradled in my mother's arms. sometimes,
i want to no longer put my dreams on hold.
sometimes, i want the world to look at me and say
"hey, pontius pilate, there's another one for martyrdom."

Riding to communion,
Just to exchange drawing of sick scences.
It was hard to sneak flirts,
without your brothers seeing.
They'd never suspect good friends,
not in the Baptistery.
How could such a well to-do family make such a little monster for me?
How could they call us sick and twisted for feelings we didn't quite know?

How much farther could we truly go,
I'm grasping to turn back now.
They're hot on our trail,
it's too late for that though
The pitchforks are near.

They've torn us apart,
let us forget who we are.
It's been ages since I've seen you,
but I still have these scares.

These memories,
these feeling,
they keep dragging me back.
If I can't have you,
then please, please just let leave me on my track.
I can't keep chasing these feelings you've given, they've said it'll **** me.

I keep trying and trying to replace your sick effects,
but it keeps me craving for what I can't have yet.
But your not just somebody, you're much more to me.
Your'e the root of my suffering,
my impossible dream.

I still hate myself,
i truly do.
Because if you came back tomorrow,
I'd still leave with you.

I am shocked that people still say "you reap what you sow". Really? I kind of get the idea they're thinking of sewing eyes shut, while reaping their vision. Then they shapeshift and look like a possum/demon ******. I don't think they were thinking purely. Just to say such a thing would get you killed in iowa, in some farmer communities. Other states too, but i like saying iowa...and ohio. Plus, the relation to sowing and reaping. Ohioiowa Iowaohio! That is fun. Maybe i am so twisted that i used those states so i could say the words. Sung it three times and see if you don't feel like a cross between drew carrey, slipnot, and neil young. Then see if you can make senior citizens believe it's some native words. Ohio and Iowa were named after tribes, but didn't we make the words? And senior citizens made us? So weird. Get it yet dopes? Some of you say dumber things out loud. Like "conspiracy theory"...you should be locked up for conspiracy to conspire with theory, or maybe "theory of a theatre" Even a plain and simple theorist can make a hypothesis. Do you know what this means? It means that there are more dumb citizens in america than there is illegal aliens. Speaking of aliens, why do you turn green with envy and then turn red when someone alienates you? Is it because they use education to alienate you and you use lack of education for everything? Well education beats you. A **** first grader could come up with theories, and probably spell it too. It's funny for a while, but really if it came down to it...and we could get along without you blaming your inability to communicate on anyone but yourself, who would wear the "i'm with stupid" shirt? It's my shirt, and i've been looking for you, so we could stand next to each other and talk. Can you imagine if i could get a real conspiracy, or theorist to open up and actually know what a thesis is, and be all theory and no conspiracy, we would be famous. I hope you did read this you mental health industry science project. Now, please go somewhere you've never went yet. I suggest school or hell. My bad, but hell keeps getting harder con theorist

company keeps company with who company keeps
do i look like those who don't sow what they reap?
only bleed at home, blood of defeated is for streets
a leech waits in mud for that life that it eats

serving sunday service mud made of human dirt
blurred first by certain pain and imperfect hurt
discomfort in the gospel hotheads stirs pots
personal relationships, demons heat with the hot

friends without sin you cast all of the stones
forget about sin choir join in to crush the bones
trends of the soul you better let your master know
perfect people who never search only reap what we sow