Movement X: The
Patron Saint of Blasphemy
My demise started at the moment I signed my Letter To God; my sacred blaspheme, my romantic tragedy, my evaluation of my insanity.
My demise started when I dipped my needle into the ink, looping and curling letters that formed absolutely nothing.
I didn't sign it with love, because I felt no love. I instead I signed it "sincerely", for what I lacked in the alien emotion of love, I made up in truth.
Sharply, I ran the edge of the envelope along my tongue until the blood welled up in a thin, vibrant line. I then sealed the envelope not with a kiss, but with a drop of my reddened spit.
A blatant 'fuck you' aura surrounded the whole affair. The words lingered on my lips as I called for an angel. The sacredly damned creature promptly arrived, the phosphorescent feathers of its wings tickling my face until I reached up and slashed at it. Its sensuous lips twisted into a childlike pout as it snatched the letter from me, careful not to touch my scabbed fingers.
As the cherub began to ascend, I blew a kiss and the 'fuck you' drifted out with it. The cherub whirled around and I captured its prismatic lips in a blasphemous kiss, pushing my bleeding tongue down its virgin throat as I plucked a feather from its wing.
I was not smitten by a random lighting bolt, nor did the skies open up to pour blood and locusts at my feet. The angel simply pulled away and disappeared.
I held its holy feather up to my eyes, watching the colors shift and change. I was mesmerized by the impossibly invisible scale of colors captured in one tiny feather. It was the single most terrible thing I'd ever seen, and I made it beautiful by smearing it with blood from my opened arm.
My altar was lined in the lovely and the lusty. A painting of a saint, a picture of a slut. A crucifix and an empty liquor bottle. A set of handcuffs for every rosary. Incense and narcotics. Gold and semen. Holy blood and blasphemous blood.
The sacrosanct and the sacrilegious had always been beautiful to me, strung together like a rosary with alternating colored beads. Red and white, sacred and profane. Whether it was a prayer per bead or a drink per bead, I loved it. I loved how the candle wax dripped on an altar and I loved how the candle wax dripped on a whore's flesh.
I loved Jesus, bloody on his cross. I loved to study those violent wounds, painted so carefully, and I loved to imagine them on my flesh.
I laughed at the wax melting onto multi-colored rosaries and I laughed at the blood dripping onto multi-colored feathers. I laughed at the angry cherub holding the profane Letter To God. I laughed at the God who scowled as He read the Letter. I laughed at the Jesus-esque holes in my hands and my head.
The world became clear to me that night. I had never written a Letter to God and I had never watched wax drip onto a crucifix. I had never kissed an angel and I had never signed my name with an inky needle. The only thing left were Jesus's holes in my hands, because Jesus wasn't real enough to wear them. So I bore his wounds for him.