I don’t go to church like I used to.
The tabernacle is locked and the pews are dusty
with the dead skin and hair follicles
of what I once was:
a saint in the making
turned sinner, turned dark.
I don’t go to church like I used to.
The priest has forgotten my face
glowing distinct with holiness,
revelation
turned apocalyptic.
The flame behind my eyes has gone out.
I don’t go to church like I used to.
My flesh is stuck to the world.
I’m addicted to a plant-based diet called Earth—
cannot swallow the meat of the Eucharist
without bitterness drying up my tongue
and hiding in the shallows of my throat.
I don’t go to church like I used to.
My grandmother would cry
if she knew how far I am
from Christ
right here, right now
kneeling on His black, icy tile.
I don’t pray like I used to.
I am too afraid to kiss
the rose-scented beads,
look God in the eyes
and scream,
I want you back.
featured in Sorin Oak Review
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