Bible

There's a clear crystal spirit living inside me, and she lets me forget who I am; just for a night. And she helps me become the man the Devil created me to be. They say: “Like father, like son”, but where do the fatherless sons fit in? Divisions and dichotomies, turned inside-out, upside-down, painted black and white, set in stone. No one will look up at the stars, they're too bright for their little eyes.

A man once said we are one, so they killed him. A woman once said there's one true god, so we cower before her. A boy once told me he wanted to grow up like me, so I told him to forget me. A little girl said she was my friend, and I was inspired to be better. She changed her hair color, and he grew taller, changing, evolving, growing, learning, but never ceasing from being themselves. And this is why it is so baffling to me the idea of His/Hers, I never knew which one I hated more. I have no friends that are men, and none that are women. My friends are my soul, and my heartbeat, and they're simply human.

I come to a fork in the road, where Truth is enforced by a sword, and Love comes with a cost. They're wearing weapons close to the skin, never letting themselves out of the their skulls. You can see their glib god peering out of their shattered ribcages and pristine tax-returns. They handed me a bible and told me to follow along, but their goosestepping was too much for me. Everything they said was laden with poison or confusion, or nothing at all. I went home and thought long and hard about all the pretty girls I knew, and nothing came of it. I went back with flowers in my hair, and all I got was a stern talking to about the virtues of masculine bleakness. No more color or floral patterns for me, I learned my lesson well, so I never went back there again, never again to that place they ironically called Holy, or that kitchen with the little closet I used to spend so much time in, I'm never back to Hell, but Hell keeps clawing it's way back to me.

If thoughts of her were wine, if they were whiskey, I'd be drunk. If thoughts of her were pain, if they were ecstasy, I'd be numb. On all fours and braying like a mule, I ask her hand in marriage, or her boot in contempt. She spits in my eye and leaves me to die, and I am nothing but ever grateful to her for freeing me from my fleshy and heteronormal prison. Everything they need is in bold-face, or italics, and it's always underlined and tattooed in the flesh of some twenty-something young thing who regrets her choices and wants a new start. They proclaim love and freedom, and sell bumper-stickers in ten packs. I am trying to make a point, but her face keeps swimming into my vision and clouding my direction, one moment it's moral fire and fury in a flurry of prose and style, the next I am in corner weeping like a child.

My life can measured with fingers, by the pack and fluid ounces. My loneliness is ash, and my angst is alcohol poisoning. I won't wait until the body is cold to hold your hand. Sawdust and echoes, not of sound, no, not of voice, but echoes of feelings, fear, fires, and loss. His face was iron or marble or ivory, but not smooth, no, not jagged either, but heavy and dark. Full of passion but not realization, I stood there drinking it in, trying to understand his meanings and his power, but I was unable to accept his words. So we let it drift with the snow, away in the sky, hopefully he will remember me in Heaven.