a mountain of my own.

we stood in the doorway as I received from you a modern benediction

it eloquated of newness and restoration that has already anointed my head

twice I have heard this, twice you have brought me back into a church of sorts, where I know now that I began as whole, blameless and above reproach and the first thing that disjointed my limbs was the idea of a god who found it imperative that we give up our magic willingly over and over again in service of power hungry animals.

these were the ones who warned me of the night prowlers, all the while prowling at night, driving by my house and desperately supplicating, “please, please, god, for all things holy, don’t let her be gay!”

and despite the most earnest of efforts, I remain a mountain of my own, growing trees and flowers and burning away the stale flora of that ancient script.