February 26, 2015

“After my days in the dark room, I returned to you, bloody and sweaty. When you came to hug me, I moved my arms in the same motion as when I cleaved a body in half. Because there was no knife in my hand, my body struck yours dully and collapsed. You bathed me with water you boiled, the water taken from the flood and heated on high until the impurities settled at the bottom and you could then pour the water into another vessel, one that collected the mostly clean water before then pouring it upon me. When you poured the water upon my head, I thought of communion blessings. I turned to you and asked if you would promise me an AMEN. You never made religious promises. You were afraid how they would feel in your mouth, like alligator scales running up and down your tongue, a crocodile mouth settled in around your tonsils so that when you answered wrong, it would snap hard and sever everything useful.”


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