I cannot love my neighbour as myself because you bid me do him no harm, and I cannot love my enemies because they keep crawling inside me and tearing out all my emotions: if I am made in your image then you are not somebody I want to see because why believe in the broken, why depend on the weak, why seek the lost and bewildered whose only answer is 'please'?
And then, as I got older, I left the woods and looked at fading stars, dying stars, eternal stars in their heavens, with lips that would kiss and words shaped through love songs, a life of journeys to some place far from home, unfamiliar, (a wild weird western shore) until sunset across limestone prompts us to make these, our plagiarised prayers to broken stone.
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Words do not come back to me easily, so I pull out my heart and wrap it in a thin sheet of paper, let the blood seep across in stanzas of honesty and hand it to anyone who will take it so that the still-beating heart can tell them all my secrets, all my weaknesses, because if they are not hidden they cannot be taken and used against me.
But nobody writes fairy tales about the ugly and poems are not there for the broken and I will never find myself in the words of a hymn nor will any whispered prayer ever say my name (which name, which me am I looking for?) because I am shouting at a cross splintered into pieces by my angry fists, and crying at the stained glass falling like killing rain around me.