Beneath your skin
is a temple.
Unholy
at three a.m.
You were reminded
of false pilgrims
who came to worship you.
Like the calm
before a storm
you waited
for the right moment
to give them your heart;
desire filled your bones
as they recited you
devotion.
Smiling, you listened
to distract your heart
from worldly longing
and pain.
Inside your eyes
are gods
waiting to be worshipped,
searching for souls
that are seeking refuge
temporarily.
They come and go,
and own you with faith
until you
disassemble.
And you begin to wallow
in the bitter truth
that you are
a temple
beneath your skin.
Unholy
at three a.m.
