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this tornado loves you
i'm all used up, pretty boy
god says, give.
is he still god if he makes me swallow my sins back down? am i still his son if our sins reflect one another?
your god takes off his halo with blood stained hands (it’s yours and his and his and his). he’s preparing for crucifixion. he isn’t holy in a way that matters, neither are you.
july came aching, hungering for car crashes and lightning strikes. summer’s full of blood because heat takes more than hatred; each memory of the texas sun is more violent than the last.
thunderstorms where the rain comes later, you were never any good at miracles. narrow side streets doused in lingering hunger, a constant whisper promising you a holier than thou funeral (you’d be lucky to get a burial).
overwhelming suburban hysteria prickles at your neck. the cause of your weather fueled nightmares sleeps in the room next to yours. his unbuttoned jeans and barely kept oaths ease the knots in your stomach; you’d spot him in blurry photographs.
eventually, lightning strikes in the darker neighborhood in search for a betraying kiss.
i hope u have fever dreams