Tell me the last time you felt
holy
without his hands on you.
Open your heart like a prayer book
and pull out the rosary beads
one by one;
spill them down the aisle of the church,
make a note of every one that bears his name.
Remember the way your mother
used to remind you
“your body is a temple”
Remember there was no addendum;
no “only when he’s inside of you”.
There is a cross of ash
imbedded in the grey matter of your brain;
it rises to the surface every time
you pray to see him again.
Fat Tuesday laments in shame,
reminds you
it’s a symbol that you have purged yourself of all unclean things.
Instead, light a candle for him.
Tell me the last time you said
“I love you”
without simultaneously asking for forgiveness.
Tell me the last time you felt
holy
without his hands on you.
Writer.Reader.Thinker.Dreamer. 