THE BOY

The boy whispered his prayers under

soft garments and wiped his tears with

The charcoaled hands that make traces of pain on skinned tracks.
Would God reject a heart crumpled under the weight of unwanted desires?

Tainted by the dark images that wet his dreams and leave
A heavy cloud of guilt on his mind.

Things that take dimly strides above his head.
And build nests of tighty knot fabrics
On his 17th birthday as they sang, he choked in his tears.
And they pulled him together for the wrong reasons.

Because even Family is not a synonym for salvation.

And if their eyes beheld the corner of his closet.

They might recoil at the sight and pour rivers of holy water.

On his body and burn a wooden crucifix on his forehead.

To repel the demons that hover his room.

The boy kneels at the chapel, and his little heart make the noises.

Of broken vessels, shattered wares, broken shards of imperfect glasses.

Laying in a carpet of painful grass.
Counting his beads in honest energy and meeting his maker.

Would God mend his heart even if he felt so strongly.

The stirrings at his thighs and the betraying nights that hold him hostage.

In pure, naked vulnerability

The boy moves again and time strikes unhappily.

But he has stroked the face of God.
In open amazement to find out that the light shines in darkened places.

And God loves broken people.

The boy is you .