Let me tell you something disgusting.
I’m still in love with you,
I don’t want to be, I don’t mean to.
But I can’t shake this want to make you smile,
This selfish fascination with your eyes.
My stomach hurts when I write about you.
Maybe it’s god.
Maybe the butterflies died and have started to rot.
Maybe it’s every fiber of the universe telling me to stop
To know my place.
To bow my head as I should.
To be reverent to real beauty.
To a real human.
I am not a human being.
This distinction makes my love ever the more vile.
It’d be an abomination for you to love me back,
But is it an abomination
for a sheep to love his Shepard?
Is it not right that someone low
Adore someone above them?
It’s my place to worship
But never touch
It’s my place to look
But never be seen.
It’s my place to sweep the altar
And weep below it.
I am not a human, I am an acolyte.
You are a false god.
I know you are.
You proclaim yourself Apollo.
Shouting to the heavens you are of Zeus’s blood,
That you sprang from the body of some
But really you’re just a man.
Really I’m just a man.
And there’s an abject horror in that as well.
Because what makes a god but belief,
And what makes a believer but a word to follow?
There are many things certain in nature.
Gravity pulls objects together.
Heat travels to the coldest thing nearby.
Rain falls and steam rises.
I am a follower looking for a god.
And water sits above mud in the riverbed.
You are beautiful,
And I never once was.