steph art projects

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The priest cries as he pours

the water, and the tears that mingle

in shallow basin form little

ripples that reach out to the edges

and yearn to be free.

“Stay with me.

Remain here with me.”

And he reaches his wizened

hands into the pool and

scoops out the tears,

and he washes the grime

from my blistered sole,

and he says again

“Stay with me.

Remain here with me.”

I cannot look him in the eyes,

or even think to meet his gaze.

I am watching God,

hanging on the Cross —

When will I ever get the chance to be so giving?

Do not reach out and touch it.

You will not feel pain from the electricity

as it flows through you.

The potential does not hurt,

Your limbic system will boil,

and your blood will deoxygenate

and you will rot from the inside out.

The necrosis will take weeks to set in fully,

to take effect,

and you will bloat

and bleed

and blister

and suffer in pain

and there will be nothing that

anyone can do for you.

A black cat sitting in the window

chirps at the world outside

as the cars pass by and the people laugh

as they cruise along broken

concrete and their heads

are thrown back in laughter.

He wishes to be a bird, perhaps,

or ladybug.

To crawl in the limbs of the tree

that are so near they

could nearly tap the glass.

An invitation to touch the

world at large.

I will stay with him

and remain with him

and offer him my hand

to nuzzle against

or bear down his fangs

until my blood might make him

content with the

little room which he

is only ever allowed.

I stand outside the chapel

long after everyone has left

and look through the stained glass

at the man hanging by

hands and feet.

— the candles were capped many

hours ago and the doors of every

saints’ reliquary shut in shame.

They lowered the chandelier

from ceiling

and we sit in the dark together

until it is time to file out.

His Suffering is to be left alone.

The only Mercy for a martyr is

a blade in the ribs.

I want to reach out and touch Him,

or say that I will not leave Him alone.

I am afraid of touching those in pain,

because I have been taught it is dangerous

to touch.

Even after you have cut off the air,

the residual pressure is enough to crush

you, or splinter your bones

into shrapnel that will perforate

muscle, or pin your skin in place

while you wrest your mangled limb

from lockjaw grip.

You will see your skin as cloth

that covers the ugly truth

of sinew and flesh.

There will be no dressing that will

cure you of this shame

or put your skin back the way it was.

Stay with me.

Remain here with me.

We close the doors around him

and lock the bolts

on our way out.

I love my friends

through a pane of

glass.

My hands are broken

and prone to bleeding and

I cannot touch

the world without

barrier of latex or nitrile

or the unspoken shame

of admitting that

I am dangerous to love.

Suffering is to be done alone.

If I ask you —

to stay with me

to remain here with me

— you will rot from the inside out.

Maybe,

in a few days time,

when I am done dying,

I hope