When the sunlight pours like spilled orange juice through the windows and you're sitting with your shoulder blades kissing the wall, you've never looked more like a messiah. Arms spread on your makeshift crucifix, you are an airplane preparing for ascent. Your head's tilted all the way back and your neck is offered as a sacrifice for every sin ever made. I have never needed you more than in this moment. My sleeves still drenched in holy water, I am taking a break from washing your feet to sit by your side and watch your pale eyes stare at the texture of the ceiling. When we were younger, before I made you into this figure, before I crafted your crown of thorns, we used to lie with our backs pasted to the carpet, finding figures in that same texture. I, a young girl, finding monsters and pitchforks and Satan and you, a young prophet discovering muses and angels and something more than holy ghosts. Do you know how long I've craved to comprehend what you see through those thick-lashed eyes? I want to ask you if every breath tastes sweeter, or if every touch feels softer. But I'm not entitled to any questions. I didn't even ask if you were ready for this. The only thing I acknowledged was my own lust for understanding. So I coaxed you through it. I whispered to you in beautiful phrases and well crafted sentences that lost most of their meaning from the constant murmur of doubt that emitted from my dangerous tongue. As son turns to father, and daughter to mother, the pattern repeats, and suddenly I am Eve all over again, crouched next to you with the holy water burning like acid into my flesh. I am the serpent as I wind my way around your body.
And I am the apple as I slide down your throat and lay a kiss in the center of your neck.