Bite it; savor it; devour me whole. Sisters in spirit, now sisters in blood and anguish. Lift the weight of prophecy clogging my throat and taste the divine between my teeth. Bear the agony pulsing underneath my skin.
Inspired messages sprawled across the city walls--they say “vandalism”; I say “service”. Alley fights and nightmares trail after me, but yielding is not an option. Paranoia has become my faithful companion, a careful eye tracking every unnatural face. Addiction, my mistress, slips in and out of sweat-soaked sheets keeping me warm throughout the sleepless nights. Certainly a worldly pleasure, but the migraines wash away rationality. Anxiety and Fear visit me often, wandering in at ungodly hours and give me heartwarming night terrors of suffering--that eternal lake of fire. Their unforgiving hands grip my shoulder in reassurance--it’s only my immortal soul at stake.
Narrow be the way…
I’ve reconciled with the comments of “crazy”, “freak”, “do not be afraid”, and “I AM”. My face feels naked without sunglasses to hide the bloodshot eyes, the sleepless eyes, the pain. And one must always be prepared for a surprise visit from a divine presence.
Angels appear everywhere--on the rooftops, in a window, on a basketball court. Often I find them silently hovering over believers on a Sunday morning, enveloping them with a sense of peace. A while ago I would’ve sought them out, demanding and daring them with a sense of self-righteousness, back when my insides burned with fire. Their silence to my pleas were suffocating.
Nowadays I simply glance at them, quietly acknowledging their unnatural presence as they gaze back, searching for something beneath my skin. When I played that bizarre game, I could never maintain eye contact for long; the godly scorn emanating from their bodies made my retinas burn--yet only a hint at their true form.
Some days my mistress presses more pills into my hands while I scream and scream until my throat is raw and choking on blood. My nails, broken and bitten, cut into my palms when I’m supposed to pray. Bruised and scabbed knuckles mended by rags still heal from my last fistfight. Whether it was God Himself or some disbeliever, I don’t care. Based on my broken ribs, I personally suspect a tractor trailer.
Other days a babe tries to suck on an angel’s scaled claw, while I could swear that mouthless face formed a smile. A somber sensation fills the air as I roam the steps of a cathedral. The choir lifts up their voices, where my mistress and companions flee from the holy sound. I am left alone with nothing but that powerful surge of passion, as a spark fills my gut, echoing the inferno I once wielded in my soul. The flames lick at my fingers while I think to myself, this must be Paradise.
A trail of wonders and dangers follow me, but flay me open and all you will see is blazen blood.
The task of a messenger was never an easy one.