he’s not fucking jesus
He’s a fucking river of veritable truth
and nailed to the holy cross rivers
of blood like love like love drowning me
(like air drowns air)
He’s a fucking genie in a bottle
and likes it when I rub him once twice thrice
(but I don’t even need to
tell him my prayers)
He’s a fucking prince with a crown
of thorns; neon lights that prick
and draw blood (that
I want to suck out of him)
He’s a fucking stanza of poetry
a portion of words that don’t complete
anything on their own
(but matched correctly mean everything)
