Sunday Morning

I never truly believed in much. The little faith I had in anything was melted, stuck like candle wax at the bottom of a vial, under snake venom. It was hard to see much of light. What shine I noticed was slit through naked trees, crooked hands, reaching up to a crested moon. I saw it and even swore by it. The only hope I ever had sat too high above me to touch, too hard to reach to cover the venom with. It would have lasted, probably. That is, if the big bads would stop trampling over my heart, my spine and cracking open my little vial of faith, losing it somewhere in the lake they leave me in. It's hard to tell blood from poison from need from what used to be believability.


Somewhere, anywhere I happen to be, it's hard to tell apart the demons from the winged creatures I'm meant to hold onto. They are too alike, too many fangs and gold strips, reminding me of a snake bite, broken glass, and something similiar to melted candle wax that I forgot about when I was a child, scrambling under hooves and pretty light too far to reach. Tunnel vision.


Under the hood, it's quiet. It should be chaotic. Tidal waves of thought, Crashes of mineral against skull, all my lost hopes and my faithlessness. Under my hood, it's comfortable. Where I happen to be, the clock strikes twelve and I'm half asleep.


This, it's easier to tell apart.


Fresh air, tornado with smoke rings, poured with caffiene and flavor. Where I lay. Where I lay, I breathe this in. The flavor. I inhale something that isn't stuck to the bones of my ribs. It lapses to my lips, rolls on my tongue and puts me to sleep, gently, the way the hands of a clock rub the eyes tired.


She tastes unlike anything. She tastes like something to believe in. Held full in an otherwise empty heart, corked closed and labeled believable. I don't believe in much. I used to not know the difference between the evil and the lesser evil. What I know now, I will take to my grave, have it buried with me, across my chest, close to my throat. Paralyzed too much to make an attempt to quit it.


She feels unlike anything. She feels like something to have faith in, hope for. Peeling layers apart, like turning pages in the Bible. Finding hiding places to keep me safe from the trampling feet and shattered bones. This fire is good. Reaching to the light that I know and shaking it awake with me. Hearing something close to hymns in her voice, praising me. Finding the good in the world doesn't involve climbing mountains and begging for forgiveness.


It involves waking up and looking around.