i’m two inches taller when i skate, two inches off the ground and two inches closer to something intangible. i push forward with the concrete like it’s on my side, like we’re continuous.
it’s cold, and, i tell myself not to describe the wind like i’ve heard it before, but all i can think is that it nips at my cheeks, demanding space. but here, i am the thing that takes up space, the one that skates on both sides of the side walk and watches the dog as it barks. i tell myself i’m growing; i’m becoming someone new.
whisper like sin can't hear; 12:21 a.m. (10/29/25)
((we are a shame-driven people, the selective sinners, the pickers, the choosers of worthy & devout. we are the sinners melting the pot of gold, the one made out to be a god, pretending like we are judgement and glory; discernment, shepherd.
we are the hand of the american god, privileged on a pedestal, the one handed to us like a gold cast crown. we know our right and wrong, sin passed down to make us righteous. we are a shame-driven people,
i don't ask what god has to say. every saint has already told me. i am a shame-driven woman, [format]i know my sin.
ii. eve tells me i was never meant to know right from wrong, and i tell her that she isn't real. but she's a sinner too and she was never meant to know right from wrong either---the first culprit.
did she like the taste?
iii. the savior is hung and so are our sins. the saints tell me i must repent to a god that tells me i've done enough, that it is finished. the saints wear their white, the one that jesus wears in every painting.
the saints tell me no one is perfect, and so the saints stand in front of the sinners and preach an imperfect gospel, teach an imperfect gospel, and damn the sinners that believe an imperfect gospel.
