to kiss god on the mouth

his lips taste like cheap pekoe tea and overly sweet vanilla creamer.

i run my hands through the hair of something i don't believe in.

there are no hymns, no bible verses

no miracles.

angles shout glory and it hurts like gunshots and

i am bleeding out on the stage of a church.

the lights are off, and the curtains are closed, and

there is nothing heavenly in this.

my teeth dig into jesus' collarbone.

his blood does not taste of communion wine

but of rusted iron nails and wooden splinters.

he tastes of sin.

that damn star is far too bright and

i feel more holy with my eyes closed.

i still do not feel clean.