diabolus ex machina

Our Lady, you are good at almost everything, halo of live doves

and tasteful amounts of glitter. Your body in a trophy case consenting

to become beloved. And my heart is a lump of mud that only knows

how to be shaped like a heart. My face, a flattened affect gone concave.

Since every god is dead in one story and not dead in another, do you

really know which happened first? Maybe there is no resurrection, the

books are out of order and translation-botched and this is the end of my

story.

I can feel my skin beneath its wax cast if I focus, so I don’t focus. And 

now here comes my same old tired inflection, I’ve said this in the past 

but I pretend I don’t remember. My love language is speaking in 

tongues.