He published a love poem on Valentine’s Day
To his One,
The Creator of the Universe.
He wrote about lust and darkness
And I knew
My body was burned on his brain
When he wrote it.
It wasn’t a shock.
In the cracks of his voice, I could tell
I was his dirty secret.
Never staying the night,
Stealing an hour here or there with me,
Showering immediately when he got home.
My body was the personification of his sin and guilt,
The devil that took him away from everything that grounded his identity.
I threatened to isolate him from everyone that ever loved him.
I don’t blame him for these thoughts.
For a long time, I blamed Eve for eating the apple.
Religion is messed up.
Because
Every kiss
Made him hold me closer.
Every touch
Led to knowing that neither of us were alone in this suffering world
Every moment
Of pleasure caught on fire because we
Burned together.
And I never could believe how bright we were.
Just the two of us.
Two loudmouth academics who wanted to make a better world for the oppressed
But could finally relax in each other’s arms.
Afterwards, in the embers of passion,
The cuddles and the quiet,
I swear I felt the closest I could to the love of God.
Shame.
I guess he was taught too well:
Never love your inner demon.
Green Glasses 