In Ink

In the sanctuary
they left the curtains open
so the light could shine in,
so that the lost could see it.
It was bragging
in this fucked up, beautiful way.
The musicman touches the keys
telling all the hands to be lifted up
in praise
in hope,
like children in the rain
reaching up to a tree that bears no fruit.

Those Sundays always had so much energy.
Charasmatic, they call it.
You dance like a king,
but sing for the glory times with empty pockets.
The pastor hums a tithing scripture
and you hear the chimes of pennies falling in the bucket.

But it wasn’t about that.
They talk about The Kingdom and eternity,
But the greatest incentive was love,
was a promise—
a promise never to be broken,
they said.
It was addicting,
the in-your-belly feeling,
the in-your-heart feeling
that unconditional could actually mean something.
And then there was that one thing,
that maybe-deal-breaker.

You know, it’s hard to see the storm
if you’re not looking up.

Tell us about your social life, they said.
What about this boy you’ve been with at school?
Turns out boys kissing boys is not what they meant
when I was told to “love my brethren.”
I thought I was loved, but apparently
that kiss signed my divorce papers
and sealed my new deal with the devil.
They said to find the change within myself,
use faith to overcome my “tribulations,”
and drain my heart of its poison—
and believe me I tried,
but my exit signs were never etched on my wrists.

It rained for so long after that,
all the emptiness filled with puddles
and reflections of my homeless heart.
People kept trying to introduce me to Jesus by mistake,
but I just told them it was a long story.
It took a while,
but I finally found God again
in ink,
in you,
in the slightest touch,
in my wildest dreams.
And my God might not work out for you,
and I’m not here to convert you,
but my god, in this world of hate,
I hope you can find faith in something.

About Ry

It's so magical, it's gay.
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