No Bible

Creation Story: I have never felt bones in this body before so tell me what it means that she used to be the space between needle and skin but now she’s not here anymore after apple picking, and you’ll see years ago she stopped sleeping and he was awoken so I sit for phone calls with god-has-a-plan’s, does your god have a plan, give me bullet points on death laying his hand on my brother’s lips and making him dry like these eyes; tell me of your plan. I am not as bitter as these bylines choke out but as I wrote this down I threw up bile.

The Book of Queer: I think of wasted worship to secure afterlife virgins while we sit in our filth, sardined and betraying bodies. Why does she carry this cloth with my weeping face, when my body has been stolen from me long ago and the tomb has no guards. Pick up fire swords, dive into banishment, I would rather be a fighter than follow your false infallibles.

Patron Saints and Petitions: God bless them with their fingers in their throats and scars on their sides and booze in their bellies, this is my religion.When I took too many pills and he put palms on me all afternoon, that is my god, and when they stoned me and slurred dyke he put his body on a cross, and that is the second coming of the son, and when we decide to wake up as an act of resistance that is our holy spirit.

Commandments: The only kneeling I have left in me is to pick up bodies as they second-sound hit the ground, and to praise her like she is an alter.

Resurrection: They sacrifice lambs like me but in three days we will be lions. They put soot on their faces to mourn how unholy we grew to be, outside of the garden. Cutting off hair only works before I destroy your temple.

Preachers: I don’t want my siblings on a pedestal, I want them on a fucking pulpit. (Even if it’s made of brimstone.)

Thou shalt: My mother told me to lie about cannibalism at twelve and carnal consortium at nineteen but I cannot continue on; my teeth are confessionals. I may not dismantle the master’s house of prayer with the words they taught me in Sunday school back rooms but I can sure make a racket while the doors are locked. Let some sort of father figure up there hear because the one down here on earth isn’t omnipotent and thinks I’m a liar. He doesn’t know I am all plasma and Palm Sunday pushpins, he doesn’t know these rosary wrists carry my child’s hymnals.

Reckoning: They gave up sanctity when my sisters and brothers died in the streets like lepers. They should be washing our feet with their hair. When I am standing over you, you will know the power of coming down off a crucifix and spitting in stab wounds. We are in limbo, and we will give you the hell you asked for.

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