by

— March 16th

I keep thinking about religion and God,

I took off the icons of Saints of my walls. They’ve been hanging there ever since I gained consciousness. The walls felt bare, and I felt guilt and doubt creeping in.

I know that my mother will be upset.

I left religion a while ago. I don’t think I ever believed, not truly. Yet, I still feel guilty. It haunts me.

God, haunts me. I think He always will.

I often can’t help but wonder if He is actually there. Watching. Gloating. He must think us to be fools. His creation, what a shame.

Maybe I’ve been wrong this whole time. Somehow, Him being real is worse. That means He’s cruel, no better than the man He created.

Let me bare my teeth into the soft flesh of your skin. Promise I will be gentle.

We can pretend like your nails digging into my skin don’t draw blood, like it doesn’t sting.

They say love is supposed to feel gentle, but all we know is how to push and pull. They say that falling becomes less scary, but I am always bracing for impact. I’d turn my left cheeks for you, no matter how much it stings.

I would. I would.

I can feel the bile rising in my throat when I see your face, but I swallow it down. 

Don’t you feel sick?

I know it consumes you whole,

Thoughts bruise your brain like punches.

Flesh on flesh, cheeks flushed red. 

I love you even when you are still, in the quiet of a summer afternoon, windows open wide with gentle breeze on your skin.

I always felt this itch in my ribs. Need to feel holy— to feel clean.

At times, guilt consumed me so much that I felt like I was going to choke on my own breath. 

I decided for myself that I did not need human connection. I could just linger, offer help when needed.

I thought that I could live on the sidelines, observe from afar.

I am turning twenty two in August, and I feel this gnawing feeling in my chest. Asking for more.

More More More.

Undeserving of it all, part of me remains selfish. The need to be seen— despite it all. I feel the ache in my bones. Nothing could subside. My bones weep, love me— see me— hold me—

February is tricking me with false spring days, though it's not too far away. Sun gently seeps through my window and I feel a gentle presence of my grandmother.

She lingers like a gentle shadow of my childhood

When I turn back, she's never there.

I do not remember the sound of her voice, nor the gentleness in her eyes.

I remember days spent in Church, sitting on a bench in the back garden, my feet not reaching the ground yet, just swaying in the air. I remember Easters spent at the graveyard, dead relatives I have never met.

March is almost here. Only seven days away, and I feel like I can breath again. The balcony door is wide open, and I can hear children playing outside. My older neighbors have started to come outside, too.

I was barely 8 when I started questioning the righteousness of God— icons of saints littered the chipped and imperfect walls of my childhood flat.

Like they were mocking me, like the Man written entities knew my deepest secrets that I yet had to figure out.

My mother, driven by fear had caught me kissing a girl when I was around 7 years old. An icon of Saint Mary in hand, I had asked for forgiveness. I never knew for what, and no one ever explained.

I was always told that He listens, that He sees it all. Does he choose who to answer? Is it determined by how much I pray? If He created us all in his image, because he desired so, why does he need worship? Why am I only worthy of his answer if my knees are bruised from praying on my knees - always begging for forgiveness.

There's this thing inside of me that has never felt right. Ever since I was a kid, everything was sharper, had an edge to it.

People seemed to connect in a way I did not understand.

I always felt everything in big waves that drowned me out. I had always chocked on my own words, bitten my tongue to stop the words from spilling out. I hated feeling bare, fear of existing in someone else's mind filled me with more fear that I'd like to admit.

I think that my house is breathing sometimes.

At night, I hear it settle and whisper things. I hear it crack under the weight of every life that has been lived in it.