Christ, or God, or Whatever or Whomever

People’s ideas of Christ here are small, frivolous, watered down with weak will. I could (and have) watch (-ed) Jesus’s (God’s? Buddha’s?) hands touch the dankest of Sundays, make the world gentler for an inhale, fashion the paths between my house and the gate to our meadows cool with the sort of bright air that stills my lungs and breathes for me, my lips moving with the leaves’ sway. Somehow this, the sun and the sky, the dirt aglow with beauty only a poet’s pen could capture unprompted, becomes a point to sell another proverbial bruise. 

How could abominations like me not exist when the ground I walk on, the skies I glean my fluids from, were created with my existence in mind? 

People here see only what they think to be true, and the sweating window glasses, droplets proof of whatever God weeps outside, keep just the dark out. The dark, a kind of deviation, another push; their lives a pull, a lull. I could (and have) lean (-ed) against the side of my grandmother’s house and felt how Aphrodite’s (the Goddess’s? Brahma’s?) breath whistles in and out from under my knees, bent ninety degrees so I can feel the burn, feel myself, feel alive. 

How could God be anything other than merciful and loving when every deviant I’ve ever seen lives with the same kind of abandon everyone else does, when they can?


How could God be anything?

How could God?

How?

God?

infinitelyinfinite3

MT

18 years old

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