L'amore e Dio

When I was seven,
someone told me that worshipping more than one idol was blasphemous,
and I mourned her bigotry.

I have always believed in higher powers. In things greater than myself. In magick, in faeries, in love. In faith being able to cure the world and faith and love falling hand in hand.

When I was fourteen,
you’d walk into a room and I would turn to you as if you were the sun,
and I was a flower in need of your rays.

Your hazel eyes are always bright green in the morning, but I didn’t learn that until I was sixteen. Green eyes always seemed thrilling to me, and you never seemed to represent any sort of danger. Any resistance I had crumbled.

For a year or so,
our hearts were entangled more than our bodies,
and it was the closest I’d ever gotten to a religious experience.

Waking up in the mornings, I’d feel self-conscious and you would pull me close to you: You would kiss my forehead, my cheeks, my neck, my palms, and look at me like I was the only girl in the entire world.

Once,
I thought I saw God in your smile, in the turn of your lips,
and I swore the answer to life was in the green of your eyes.

Your words used to lift me like a spell or a prayer, but now the faithful confidence I always had has dwindled to a fleeting hope without any real hope in it.

I am almost eighteen,
and it took me this long to realize that you were merely a blasphemous misconception
who taught me what it feels like to lose my faith.