Without God my soul can give.
There was a hole when I met My Love
and they left enough space to live
for that lack is the gift of trust.

Between God and my saffine enby
I have faith in the one who loves free.

Agape is that self sacrificing
devotion that cons at pulpits
call for, cuz they want
our       m   i n   d     s                broken.
But there is an ocean of difference
between the slavery of their church
and the love that I serve. My Love
is still dripping from their current,
trying to shake dry His high expectations.

I had another God growing up.
A polytheism of childhood of abusers,
                                  misquoted science,
                                 and electric church.
For hours I venerated the pixels,

devoting sparkling will to syndicated dreams.
As was my custom,
as was my chant,
I lied about their influence on my own brainpan.
                                                Rebellion is in my blood.
                                          I shall live free or die trying.
                         As I was frying my egg on their crud.

To love is to give grand gestures and passionate decrees.
                          buy often and spend for the best.
To love is to experience every touch, my blood rising degrees.
                          know a never-ending drive to fuck.

These were my scriptures
and there's more festering under sutures.
Gentle hands and saffine rags
clean the wounds. And through that haze
of puss I must start my day
with grit. For I always feel like shit,
to fail at living
up to the sitcom's vision

of who I should be.
Yet her love salves,
it can't set me free.
I must heal myself
and so I've learned to work when I want to scream,
a childhood of neglect making every cleaning session
wreck my consciousness. Doing good, by washing
dishes where their bird can join the tinks. Ominous
specters repeat of litany of insults screamed
at a child who never had a rolemodel provide.

Thinking of My Love,
I rise above and scrub,
though it is no big thing.
I have to cry sometimes
before the dishes are even dry,
risking soap as I rub a forearm
against my eye. All so I can

wake them with tea in bed,
while they complain about
my interruption as their half-death
makes a demon of them instead.

Their lack of gratitude is hard,
but I've learned to endure with a smile
for when they rise, they don't criticize
and they beg sorry at their grumpy need for slumber.

This is my humble agape.
This is the self given low to service.
They deserve no less
and I strive to give more.

For I am devoted complete
to a comfortable love
that is most passionate
between the sheets.

Instead of stabbing
with words and graphing
my mistakes of the week.

If I longed to go, they'd wish me the best.
If I sin, I know, they will forgive my confess.
If I lack the strength to serve at their altar
they let me stay in bed and return the favor.

For their love is real and I can touch their works.
His love is cruel and matches my family's berserk.