you pray to your false gods and their fraudulent orifices. mouths that don’t speak and ears that don’t listen but you look and see power, you feel comfort, not realizing that the only power there is the one being sucked from your marrow and the comfort is bred from habit. from trying to make friends with your wolves a little too much maybe. from pouring them water, fountain spouting from everything you hold dear while the blood drips from fang marks on your back. what chasms do they leave on your understanding.
like how my heart has a crater the size of a man, blood of my blood and is it really thicker than water? like notes in your friend’s backpacks asking for belonging, for a home, for something solid and it being turned into a joke. forgive them father because they didn’t know what they were doing. none of us know what we are doing. like being seven and already being sure that something was missing, that the love you had was not enough, that the friends you had were not enough, that you can’t fill a cosmic void with people no matter how much stardust they are made of, its echoes bellowing through generations of loves lost and found but still the only possible satisfaction coming from one man.
blood and water gushing out of his side, staining his purple robe forever, with the taint of our prized independence. a pack of wolves for each one of us wreaking havoc on his body, “i am thirsty” and then “it is finished”. water and blood. the veil lifted, all our holes stacking on top of each other, a wormhole looping back to the start, alfa and omega. why do you seek the living among the dead? why do your hands reach out for rotten flesh like you’re reaching out for rosy cheeks, why do you look at a window and think ending and not opportunity, why do you dive into wounds like pools. blood and water.
why is the sacrifice not enough and how with all your jealousy you can’t quite understand a jealous god, collapsing lungs and still giving you all his breath. how does your heart not break when he asks you if you would treat a friend this way, when he calls and you pretend you don’t listen, when you tell him time has been slipping through your fingers like sand but you’re more than glad to bury your head in it. why do you seek the living among the dead? and why do you count yourself among the dead, when you are living.
