twenty-four voices.

i am your silver cross.

time pauses unsettlingly in the shadows. it is sunday again. seventh on the seventh on the seventh. these never-ending cycles blur into one.

before the congregation, god tells another story about the devil. you’ve heard it before. familiar with forgetten bloodlines, you listen again. he rearranges all you’ve ever witnessed.

divide the narrative. he created us. you created him. escapism feasts on your soul.

perverted gazes linger on the back of your skull as you ascend the altar. your twenty-four voices call this altar home. disillusioned copies, sacrificial infected relics for our own amusement. all teetering between the balance between holy and haunted.

if we held a candle to your body, would you recognize the horrors illuminated? could you call to them by name?

at the altar, the bitter words of the overwhelming savior regurgitate in your mouth.

congratulations, you’ve been chosen. do you feel like someone else? (you created it. you’ve created it all.)

twenty-four voices call out for you to disrupt the balance: speak. speak to him. pull that thread. scratch that itch. mourn his pure imperfect love.

the silence is the call and the answer. / all paths ahead are uncertain. you won’t need to go far to get lost. / the psyche is an unexplored region fending off / deterioration and holy curses. / document the process with unsent letters. / everything will be redeemed in the end.

behind the church, god ends his story.