Jesus Dressed In Drag

Summary: The hardest thing to overcome is watching the one you love, love another. So giving in, I kneel praying to my absent God. (Femslash content) (Vignette-ish)


She told me, she enjoyed teasing him. Letting those kisses drag away from his lips and lower down to that toned and muscled abdomen.

He'd claim her lips, swallowing her hungry moans. And she'd inhale and exhale, her breast –humble-moving to her beating heart. Her lips would grow thirsty, licking his sweat. I'd struggle to listen, instead examining my converse walking on the pavement. And instead of focusing on my failing heart, I focused on the low footfalls I made. The chatter and noise from the crowd would become a whisper and her voice would become droning, but still I'd catch every word she said, every detail.


Her hair, a dark brown with those oak-red highlights, was curled. There was shine from gel and hairspray. She held no smile, no content stare –just a blank demeanor. But still, I was compelled to smile and scrutinize her from afar. And from the first day I had seen her, I knew she'd soon become the biggest part of me.


I've always had this illness. From birth, I've been dying. Haven't we all? No, it's not a real illness. But she made me feel alive.

She talks about marriage. She jokes about naming one of her children after me, we joke.

She's a Goddess compared to me. I would say he'd never love her as much as I love her, but I'm wrong.


I lay there, below her. And she was on top. Not it's not how it sounds; we're on the gym bleachers. Outside, construction for the new building is partaking. So P.E. is out of session for now.

She moves closer, her hand rests on my stomach and inwardly, I smile at this. With every click of the camera, I remind myself, this is just a photograph. Something I promise myself to save, because one day I'll promise myself to burn them.

Everything in the gymnasium should be black and white- all the people playing basketball and the girls, we know, on the other side of the gym conversing. And we should flash in color every time a picture is taken. She should flash in fucking color…


Ever get that feeling that everything is crashing down? The walls which once held up to terrible winds are now breaking apart because of rain.

It's late at night, midnight. And the air is cool, it's cold. But I sneak through the sliding door quietly, wearing a tank-top and pajama pants, bringing with me just one cigarette and a lighter my dad left behind.

I bring the smoke to my lips and hold it there. And I light it up, holding the fire there far too long. So I inhale. And then I exhale. I do this as if I'm practicing on my breathing, in case I might forget one day how to breathe. I know I might.

And I stare up at the sky, the faint light of stars here and there. There are not enough stars.

I feel light; there are no tears as I descend onto my knees –still staring at the sky. Am I praying?


You appeared on my doorstep with that soft smirk. And I counter with a meek grin; he's with you holding your hand. Maybe afraid if he'd let go, you'd float away to heaven. And he'd stay on the ground; on the pavement, in front of my white door with the wreath because of course it's December. And it's cold, and you're still standing there with him and I, still, at the door.

This is like a movie, did you know that? I should be writing you a letter right now, because we all know I'm leaving one day. We don't need these happy endings.


So, knees still bent and cigarette burning on my lips, I can't lift my hands. I'm not praying. I'm just kneeling.