think of the wild-eyed farmer’s boy on the fourth pew every sunday. the light-haired child feasting on every sermon. smalltown sainthood shrouded, new myths bloom under his veins.
he tried baptizing himself in prophesied waters yet his actions were synonymous with drowning. why did you mistake him a sign from god?
he feeds on something unrecognizable. he isn’t holier than any miracle so don’t leave him, he’ll create his own god.
blessed with his sunrise halo, dimple-cheeked, childlike laugh echoing taunting out in the desert. long-limbed adolescent hungering for revival. resurrection. false hero waiting for hope to fall in his lap.
he who makes you plead for love at empty altars; he who you don’t know how to face you without a blade ready.
he’s long gone and you’re still floating by the creek.
can you still feel his blade on your collarbone? his dogbite sinking into your hip? why’d you love him if you couldn’t stand his mark?
the worst of us were overwhelmed, underfed, self poisoned with holiness. he went out into the desert, digging graves as if you could’ve been brought back like some sort of miracle. he would’ve been saved if he loved you less and chose a different god (but what’s holier than family?) loving you might’ve been his only defense mechanism.
after everything won’t you tell us your fears? is it the boy clinging to odd uneven time with his gnashed teeth? or is it the one crouching beside the corpse his attention soley on you?