• fireblast_ 19w

    I don't say I'm an angel but my sins might be different in comparison when told by a priest who every night walks by the train tracks from Church and thinks about not mass, not sermons or lines of scripture but about that one couple making out on the stairwell of Baptist church. He wishes he has something to hide whenever he tucks his laundry in cupboards that latch quietly. His rage is domestic, he sharpens it every night under the shadow of his own figure and hides it between his knuckles or behind his jaw. He claims his blood is darker than any holy wine, his pain a mad mourning. A person who spent all his life rephrasing words to people who didn't agree with him. I've seen him lamenting the pretty lips because they're another act of resistance, maybe he knows nobody confesses the right amount of truth.

    I don't say that I'm an angel, perfectly incapable of hurting people or reminding them of their own limitations. I stand in the long whispering night, unable to hear my heart chanting a distant choir in memory of all my terrible mistakes that I'm not yet forgiven for. I want to worship what I destroy but I'm hungry for it, I want to love what I create but I'm indifferent to what I feel. I write and I'm being praised for my wounds, and wounds of others. My sins might be different in comparison to a person who murdered a child across the street, but I don't know God what it means to live in fear of your own creation.

    - We are all sinners