Content warning: sex, alcohol

god fucked me last night
or was it you? i couldn’t tell you apart
from my position on the floor.
when you stroke my face i’m twelve years old
again. and you are the priest offering repentance
vodka burning my throat becomes the communion wine,
when you separate your lips and tip your face
toward the sky i can see the resemblance
to the man at the front of the church when kneeling
was a punishment rather
than an act of love, or maybe lust, or desire
religion has left me entirely, religion is your finger
on the edge of my mouth, religion is the priest’s
hand on my shoulder and the weight of the bible
in my arms. love you doesn’t mean i love you doesn’t
mean i’m in love with you but i look at you in the blurring
light of the dancefloor and i can’t tell the difference
between sin and salvation when your hands are just
close enough to mine to pretend they’re not touching
at all. i’ve been fucked and i’m still pathetic
enough to want to be loved.