Every Sunday
Your stained-glass windows,
burn through her Sinner skin.
The image of
a sunset;
a hill;
a cross.
Scriptures; intrusive thoughts;
(on gold-tipped paper edges)
so thin it
Slices
her fingerprints.
The body of Your teachings,
leather bound like skin and branded
Holy;
You have no pews
to kneel behind,
Yet her knees feel bloody and bruised
From begging to be loved
by You.
Not enough.
Fine.
Let her blood be Your Holy Water;
(A desperate show of good Faith)
Drown
Your mouth
in the irony
taste
of her,
Until her veins shrink, and the metallic tang
Fills the acoustic halls
of Your esophagus,
Stains the wooden bearings
of Your vertebrae,
And colors the painted white brick
of Your torso
Red.
Lick the corners of Your lips
before it dribbles
down
Your chin,
so she has nothing left to give.
Then sing psalms to a tune
That will echo off high ceilings,
bounce off her skull,
crowd her lungs with
breaths
of praise
so she knows nothing else
except Faith.
As her ears block out Christian guitar songs,
And she mindlessly
hums
Along.
She fears to be exposed as a fraud
for not wanting to give her body
to God.
That He will come down and
Slice
her achilles, so she may
never rise
from prayer.
Forever worshiper.
Forever believer.
Forever, in hallowed
silence.
