Midnight Mass

I can smell every catholic church I've ever stepped into. I feel some fear about the limitations of the images -- but the grandest osmosis seeps into my skin as I was born a Catholic.  It does not show us the invisible feeling of all that is unheard, when raindrops culminate into one- swallowing you whole in its indescribable nomenclature. That is not here. 

But you can dissolve, leaking ceiling pipes into the chipped, asbestos paint cracking from the inner thigh of Christ, his mother holds him there still- flakes gently, over your face as you look upwards and pray - open your eyes - the light inside the paint; the eyes of love with this we see.  Comforts in the limitations of its silence, its rules - keeping me to myself. 

Is it wrong to want to fuck in a Catholic church? This religion breeds fantasies of nothing else. Wafer on my tongue, evil at my back, redemptions between my legs, by candlelight.  Stone of statues, stains on glass gazing with desire at every secret show. 

Rarely, without guilt, I was raised inside this catholic world.  Most assuredly, it informed my deviancy, put it in its place.  Gave it a home, a consequence and a name. 

The incense melts my skin, its original plans and that which invades my prayers.  All the flames afire, her eyes look upon me, his forgiveness abides, and I walk on, without a regret in the world. 

Song of songs playing chorus to the din of the dusk, as you scrawl X's on all the advent calendar days.

~ M. Lucia