"god, darling, is
dead," you would lament,
as the sunlight filtered
through the curtains
we refused to pull,
your tired skin
a stark juxtaposition
against my starched
white sheets,
(when you left, they
smelled like rebellion)
"god is dead," your
favorite lyric, a phrase
highlighted in every book
on that wooden bookshelf,
you used to pray against
my skin at night
(when you left, I tried
to whisper your words with
as much spite as I could)
"god is dead"
you would mumble
with resignation the moment
the sun filtered through
(the curtains we refused to pull)
and I would listen,
every time, our lives
a broken record we
refused to fix, our legs tangled
in by drunken promises, my arms
pulled in with derision,
slurred vows that never lasted
and that fucking refrain
of yours the morning after
you'd repeat sprawled across
my colorless sheets
(when you left, I found out,
those words weren't yours)
and I swallowed that phrase
never understanding the
altercations of the message
behind it, of how you'd
renounced the things
we couldn't understand
and the things you
misunderstood,
(before you left, I realized
that also meant us)
"God
Is
Dead"
But you, and I?
We were alive and this
bastardized idea of
religion you breathed
upon me, a heathen, hurt,
Because I was alive,
I was still breathing,
I was there,
but you,
refused to open
your eyes and see
that while your
god may be dead
OUR LOVE, my religion
Wasn't.
(when you left, I burned
my sheets)
