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The pleasure of his pain
calls out to me
from the darkest
corners of my soul
the side of me
dank and moldy
with shamelessness
the side that knows
no self-control and
lets vice defile her
as she sleeps.
Those days I ended up
doing something stupid
just because I was lonely
swept under the rug
are now beating like
guilty telltale hearts
from beneath the floorboards
reminding me
exactly how weak I am
and stating the obvious:
how lonely I am,
screaming lonely
tearing-out-my-hair lonely
questioning-God lonely
crying-stone-tears lonely
and he offers himself
as the miracle cure
but he lies
because he knows what
the bottom of my coffin
looks like
he knows what
the pit of my lowest
moments feel like
as he’s the one
who put me there.
From my faith’s deathbed
he pretends to pray
that I find my way
but with each hallowed
word he desecrates
in honor of my
perverted need of
the beautiful sins
he has to offer
he mouths the curses
that place me
under his will
more helplessly than ever.

“60” by photographer Mecuro B Cotto