wheezer

“Why does my skin start to burn?”

He's like a hearth—warm fire crackling in the quiet of the night while the wind howls outside. Warm, inviting, all-consuming.

And yet.

When I look up, the cross where Jesus lies, He seems to stare into my very soul. As if He knows that I am damned, that I am broken.

Sometimes, it feels as though He'd pry himself off the very cross and streak my skin with His holy ichor. As if to attempt to purify the mold within me thats been there as long as I can remember.

My gaze is drawn back to the fireplace. The fire has dimmed as it burns itself out, distancing its warmth from me. I want to stoke it, keep the flames going to keep the cold away. But I don't.

I let it die, and I pull away. My heart twinges for some reason, and I don't know why.

He's like a hearth, and I can't find it within myself to allow the simple pleasure of being hugged, loved, revered, appreciated, happy warm.

Its too much like a brand. Its a commitment I cannot bear.

I lie awake in bed at night, the dim moonlight leeching in through the blinds. I haven't closed the curtains, and maybe its because I'm afraid of the dark.

Maybe its because the fire is not here, and I find myself wanting to return to the living room, chasing that unknown feeling.

You know this feeling, you know what it is. You just don't want to admit it in fear of finally facing this mold that has you coughing up its spores. The words you don't let yourself say to the fire. You know what you are. But it weakens you to say it. Like a house giving into fire; it consumes you. Its a hedonistic pleasure, and it burns, doesn't it, Edmundo?

Instead, I clutch the sheets as if it were rosary beads to scare away the feelings that make my heart tremble and my skin start to sweat.

The moon outside casts moving shadows of branches on my wall, looking like hands that want to anoint me with the Holy Spirit to heal my sickness. To pray away the mold in hopes that I'd get better.

It makes me rear back into the safety of my blanket, like I'm a kid all over again. Its not long before I fall asleep, my grip white-knuckled on the sheets that surround me giving the warmth I covet.

Its only me that exudes the warmth for myself.

This night, I dream of memories long past and it blurs from war-ridden horizons to wailing sirens and then fire.

So.

Much.

Fire.

The living room is consumed by it, and yet the furniture still stands. There's no soot to choke on nor are there are no walls I can see. There is only fire and the solid reassurance of ground before me.

Its not the scorching type that wants to seize me. Its the comforting type that seeks to cradle me.

He's like a hearth. Its warm fire that crackles and pops in the safety of my dreams. It licks at me, and yet it doesn't burn. It feels more like a warm hand clasping my arm, wanting to hug me into its embrace.

Here, Jesus above the mantel does not leer. He does not seek to stain my skin with his ichor. He seeks to brush over it as if to say, "Look at my creation, and how I love him so."

There is no judgement in His tone, only acceptance.

Here, the fire does not die. Instead, I stoke it, and allow myself to be held by his warmth. Outside, the wind rustles instead of howls, the moon highlights instead of overlooking.

Here, I am cradled.

Here, I am loved.

But only in the safety of my consciousness do I allow this hedonistic desire to say to Buck..

"I love you."

Unbeknownst to me, I whisper it into my pillow, the sheets still in my grasp as if to use the beads to rear it back—rear myself back. To stop myself from giving in, to scare it all away and lock it behind chains.

I love you, I love you, I love you. I've always loved you. But it is mold, and it is ugly, and it is sickness.

I bely the words I want to say with moments of concern and softness instead, hoping that maybe someday you'd read inbetween the lines and say what the spores cannot allow me to admit.

"I love you."

In the bleak hours of sunrise, I wake up with a wheeze. The fire has sputtered and died, leaving behind that unknown feeling I feel like I've been chasing since I was a kid. I clutch my chest as if to reach behind layers of flesh, sinew, and bone, hoping it would will itself to stop beating so erratically.

Someday, I hope that God and His son will forgive me for this wretched sin I've been born with.