Dirty Divinity

I always felt as if I was possessed by some sort of dirty divinity. I could tell by the ecstatic swells I would feel in the tiny details, pressing my nose up against the rim of the world. How else could you explain all of the things I have done to my body and survived? I've caught it on fire and cut it. I've poisoned it and marked it. I've fucked it into half-dead stupors and pulled entire humans from it. And still, and yet. Here I am.

Surely it must be something deep inside of me, some secret wetness, that keeps me safe from myself. Or maybe it only elevates me, filling me up with its glory, just to see the smear I make when I fall from so high. I worship all of the places I find it. In the bones and guts. In the seconds between breaths. I've felt the weight of it hard against my tongue. Who could blame me for wanting it in my mouth?

I have even touched the generational divine. my mother and I high off of the dilaudid they prescribed her, she laughed and said "Would you like to see what the therapy has done to me?" as she lifted up her nightgown and showed me her hairless cunt. I nearly cried to see the place I had come from looking so arid, the plains and valleys of her starved for rain. But that niggling meat inside of me whispered. even this you will live through.

Sometimes the voice of god shakes every tiny nucleus in my body. I hear him howling in the cells of me. He's had no one to talk to for years now.

We all get so lonely.