a homosexual devotional
i cannot kneel at the feet of a god that denies my offerings. my sacred offerings of devotion, devotion to the divine beings of muscle and marrow carved by his own celestial chisel. devotion to the fierce, sensitive, consecrated institution of womanhood. devotion to a girl. my girl. how could he create this girl, this girl with a soul of dappled moonbeams and stardust yet decree my love for her an abomination? i adore his art, i adore his gifts, his blessings. the string of women i have loved, each one a prayer. each bus stop kiss goodbye a holy act, an seraphic display of nothing but sincere faithfulness to this universe and the love to be found and reciprocated. i cannot and should not deny myself happiness by averting my eyes to the gaze of the girl that sits across from me at a party, cigarette hanging from her rosy lips, the earthy fragrance of her spiralling smoke a hint at what’s to come once i am gently laid to sleep in the soil. isn't love the point? i love and am loved in return, and that is my worship. what kind of god thinks such beauty abhorrent?
a god that shaped me this way, a god that made girls in their enchanting, silvery form, yet curses me for the desire that prickles at my fingertips, is not a loving god. i will not beg my forgiveness, for i cannot deceive my creator. i will not pray to anyone but the girl that lies next to me tonight. god is an arrogant man if he thinks i would give up my crystallised visions of syrupy femininity for an eternity in his sorry company. pride is a sin, doesn't he know?
if i go to hell, so be it. the scent of burning flesh will fill my nose, the roaring fire only serving to remind me of the heat that consumed me within the rose garden between her legs. i will feel the flames on my skin, let my hair be set ablaze, and think of nothing but how sorry i am for the girls in heaven, the girls with their knees bruised from the endless praying, begging to be different. the girls sensibly married, three children and a nondescript husband in a button up, the girls who look at the women that glow from the tv screen, radiant in their miniskirts and their tank tops and contemplate how it could have been, if their god didn’t hate them, if they didn’t know that he did.
what if she didn't know?