born a catholic, die a catholic
this traitorous heart and these traitorous hands that come together to conspire against my head
too terribly alone and too blinded by desperation to see anything clearly in front of me
if my eyes glance away for just a second, my idle hands start to build cathedrals
i have to tie my wrists with thorns just to restrain subconscious movement
and every time they dig into my skin it reminds me of what it's like to worship a fallible god

born a catholic, die a catholic
i fear that devotion may simply be in my nature
baptised to search for the next prophet
no matter how much i try to shake it, i cannot resist adoration
a horrible, horrible habit
and it is a long three days to wait for your resurrection.
but i'm outside the tomb with hammer and nails, ready to condemn you again and again

i see now it was instilled into me in youth to await a messiah to absolve me of sins
a person to bring salvation and ever-lasting life
though this time, he collapsed on the way to the cross
no simon and no veronica
a tragedy, that you could not even be martyred for the cause.
no, not even half the man of those who came before you—
the crucified whose egos seep from their hand wounds

but every poem needs a subject, and every poet needs a muse.
at least i was able to get some use out of you.

abby, the holiest of holies