Helpless gestures have never felt so foreign. 

Musty motel rooms have never felt less like home. 

There’s a creator in your midst, and 

His eyes are narrowed in your direction.

“An abomination, they tell me,” he murmurs. “The last surviving glimpse 

Of what never should have been.”

He then shakes your hand with measured force, 

Wary and watchful and so powerfully full of grace that,

Although his eyes are bright and free of judgement,

You’ve never felt more ashamed. 

You try not to look too grateful as he turns away.