He was my priest.

I was baptized with his mouth,

every scripture preached carefully,

with lips soft and tangible.

I was his muse.

My hands so tiny parted for his

and eyes bright like as stain glass.

He made me feel like this; Loved.

Butterflies can't compare to the feelings I acquired.

I had hummingbirds

their wings fluttered at 52 beats per second

sending my stomach in a dizzy

But as soon as I felt Heaven in his hands

I saw Hell around me.

My conversion was for the wrong religion.

His lips whispered in tounges.

I was a sinner, no angel in his eyes,

his hands pull from mine

with eyes dilated to a supernatural size

he made me feel like this; wrong.

The rapture has begun and he is to judge me.

My hummingbirds turned into woodpeckers

poking at my empty stomach,

the pain unbearable.

I was wrong for believing.

I was always wrong.

I believed this because he told me I was

with false intentions I became a worshipper.

On this holy ground no confession ever brought forgiveness.

He was a false idol raising a cult.

I told him I loved him,

He told me I didn't know what love meant.

An I will pray for him to be right.

As long as this is the last time I'm wrong.