White accented with hints of black and red,
Gorgeously pristine and dauntingly perfect.
He felt further than far here, but he was right where he needed to be,
The dirt beneath him is loose and noisy but it doesn't matter now.
One day he'd be buried in it, the Earth, where the worms would feast on him,
He'd return to where he came from. For as long as he could remember, he was floating.
Like a distant burning star, or a leaf in the wind, headed for a black hole or a rushing river. They would swallow him whole until nothing remained of himself, his confusing self.
This was what he always understood, what he always felt would eventually happen and he knew everyone around him could see it, he'd have no choice in it.
Everyone. Could. See. It
His mother would try to be kind when telling him he needed to try harder, think positively, the bindings on his chest squeeze horribly at his lungs.
The skin on his back peels off as tape uncomfortably pulls and tugs, pressing down what made the world just a bit more unbearable. The tape on his chest trying to undo what God created.
When would it happen? Would the world finally get to him and finally, finally he'd jump?
Everyone. Could. See. It.
The only place of solace was the tall building, marked with stained glass windows and the loud bell that rings every moment in his brain.
The only place of solace was in the words of an old wrinkly looking man with detailed unique robes, the warm words that held him tightly.
Yes, these were the only times he was really safe, as much as his fellow parishioners with their beautiful clothing hated him too, it didn't matter here, it never mattered at all.
He would work on forgiving God for creating him this way, everyday he would find it in his heart to understand nothing is perfect, not even God.
Even when his words are taken and chewed on by hateful mouths, spit out with sickly gross vitriol, the world is too beautiful to listen to any of that. The worms will one day have them too.
He knew God could also forgive, forgive the scars on his chest, forgive the drop in his voice, forgive the change in his name. God wouldn't punish a flower for blooming, would he?
They could forgive each other, they could get to know one another again too even though it had been such a long time, like rekindling old friends.
This was the God he knew, and maybe God would recognize him again, it would be a sweet thing to do, he thinks to himself. Like seeing a flower in the spring that died in the winter.
Across the dark field is that tall wonderful church where he spent so much of his time feeling fear and maybe even disgust, looking like a heaven of its own.
Those stained glass windows, high white halls, and at the top, the loud ever ringing bell. The smell of wooden pews and old paper, that is like a second home to him.
One day he will be able to walk in, with no eyes in beautiful clothes on him, with no questions or curiosity he would receive the body of Christ and it would be normal.
He. Could. See. It
At least he would certainly hope so,
Or else he'd feel a little silly still praying, here and there.
--Raúl R., Adult