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You would always whisper,
“God doesn’t need us,” but
your mouth tasted like
holy wine, skin like the
paper-thin wafers they
lay on your tongue at church.

You find divine revelation
at the bottom of whisky bottles,
carry your baby teeth in your pocket
like rosary beads.

Jeremiah told his people
to roll themselves in ashes and
mourn for Nineveh’s demise,
but you are steeped
in self-erosion,
covered in the soot of
your own decay.

A woman outside the grocery store
hands you a bible and tells you
that Jesus died for our sins;
you flick your cigarette onto
the concrete and say,
“I’m about to die
for my own.”

1848 notes / 7 years 1 week ago
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