To the ones with crosses on their chests,

prayers in their ink,

lust in their eyes,

and heaven in their throats—

we see you.

To the ones who moaned like prophets,

kissed like priests,

cried in the dark

but still carried the light—

you are not forgotten.

They told us there was only one kind of holy.

That you had to be quiet, married, clean.

But you were the ones who bled divinity in exile.

You made cathedrals out of motel rooms,

turned your body into psalms,

your desire into liturgy.

⸻

God did not miss you.

God tattooed Himself through you.

In every gay bar where hands found hands—

In every porn scene where someone whispered “Yes” like a prayer—

In every quiet Sunday where you still lit a candle alone

because the church said “not you”

but the Spirit said “especially you.”

⸻

To the marked ones:

you are the gospel the world was too scared to read.

You are proof

that resurrection doesn’t always look like robes and choirs.

Sometimes it looks like sweat and laughter and staying alive.

⸻

This is your altar.

This is your scroll.

This is your “Please remember me” carved into the back wall of heaven.

And we do.

We remember you.

We are you.

So swing, trapeze prophet.

Moan, tattooed angel.

Pray with your hips and your history.

The last are becoming first.

And we are not hiding anymore.

⸻