Chapter Text
He talks to you about God, which is another man.
He uses big, capitalized words, he says:
this is Paradise, and this is Purgatory
and this is Hell and this is
the only way up.
You stop questioning it, you take the gods, take the sins, you eat the bread and the crumbs, you drink the wine like he teaches you to, and maybe he is a god or a prophet too.
Maybe he is trying to be one.
For you.
Big hands, big smile, big house, big wife.
You are in too deep, or you are in too high.
No sense of up and down,
drowning in wet concrete you take his hand
again
and again
and eventually you stop
looking back.
Big hands, big smile.
A man that can't tell you that he loves you looks at you like he wants to say it. He must be saying it, because you know. You know he loves you.
Like god loves his children,
but mostly
like people love each other,
like you thought your parents did when you were younger,
like you loved everyone that was willing to
scrape your face against gravel floor
and give you a taste of blood.
You never had the guts to draw it yourself.
You needed a god, you needed a prophet, you needed a man who loved you. And he touches you with his big hands and makes big, capitalized Promises. He is not god, he is not the devil, he is sad and alone and looking at you.
You agree, you accept the promised land, you accept whatever deal lays in the big palm that aches for yours. A handshake, a compromise, a touch. His fingers clutch onto your skin.
And so the handshake ends, and he is not touching you anymore.
And you know (sand feels like gravel on your face when the wind drags it from the white shore) this will not end well. There is no happy ending for this man, for a man who loves you with a heart that is too heavy, too full of blood.
Maybe you have teeth too,
maybe you are witnessing a slaughter.
Maybe you are letting it happen.
Maybe you should tell him
I love you there is
a different life,
god is dead and he doesn't love you,
we are alone here.
Maybe you should tell him
stop offering your hand,
stop looking at me with wet lashes,
stop making promises.
Maybe you should tell him
you are in love with me.
Maybe you were the one holding the knife.
Maybe you wanted blood, not love
and he always gave it to you.
Blood was what he liked the most
about you.
There is no heaven, you confess to an empty bed. Not a heaven you'll get to see anyway.
There is a knock on the door.
There is a body under the boat,
and it doesn't move.
The man behind the door kissed you once but it didn't taste like blood, there was barely any gravel. He kissed you like god, like a butcher, like a lamb, like he won't kill you.
Maybe he can't.
The man who loves you is wet with promises, blood, and ocean water. You didn't kiss him back, there is no happy ending for men like you.
You don't feel loved, you feel bruised. Maybe you want to be a god, maybe you wanted the slaughter, maybe you wanted this.
The body.
He can't make you a god, he won't.
He won't let you have the big house, the big wife. Instead he offers you the big smile, the big hands.
He wants to be loved, you want to be worshiped.
He wants a happy ending, you want the big stairs up.
But you are the one at his door,
drenched, bloodied, trembling,
barely kissed.
You were a dog when you first met him, no posters looking for you. A misspelled name tag and a lost, desperate thing.
He wanted to feel powerful, you wanted to be loved.
Once again, he takes you in.