Fucking missionaries

   
 
It was pouring rain and chilly  
when I slammed the door in  
the face of an asshole  
selling me salvation  
 
Fuck I hate those guys.  
 
Asked me if I knew the truth  
 
as if I didn’t read that book  
years ago  
and made my choice  
in fucking spite of it.  
 
I crawled back into bed,  
to warm my cool skin  
against your body.  
 
Us. Ever in motion  
you kiss the top of  
my head as I make  
ahnks on your chest  
that sometimes looked  
like hearts  
 
I dream about damnation  
in your arms,  
the hells we’ve  
burned in for each other  
all  
this  
time  
 
and I shiver when you ask  
who was at the door  
 
The past is a wraith  
screaming visceral hunger  
for shit that missed its  
angry maw  
 
and I tell you about the man  
at my door  
screaming repent,  
from a past that’s dead and buried  
 
your hand tightens  
around my waist  
 
The preacher man can tell us  
what he thinks is right and wrong  
but fuck him.  
we wrestle from this plane  
whatever we’re strong  
enough to take  
And…  
 
You sigh, because I’m  
riled up and proselytizing my own  
religion against the asswipes  
who like to judge first;  
ask questions later.  
 
So you tell me our  
secrets,  
(I want you)  
pulling your work shirt  
from my body,  
chuckling when my hair gets caught  
and you murmur  
our secrets  
enough for me  
to calm down and listen  
to the shape of your  
body on mine  
(I want you)  
 
But the seedy way that acolyte  
slithered in my subconscious  
as if he was trying to help me  
 
distracts me from the taste  
of your mouth.  
 
We can grow.  
Or we are perpetually doomed.  
 
but I’ll be goddamn  
if a hypocritical fucker who  
preaches that we can  
fight to be  
who we dream to be,  
who we feel we are  
on the inside;  
who we know  
is the best  
version of ourselves  
 
is going to knock on my door  
with his Jehoviahs Witness tie  
and ask me to get saved  
 
Tools are used to do  
other people's work  
and that fucker  
was a rusted set of vice grips.  
 
You do the thing with your  
hands that makes me forget  
that moment in the cold  
makes me forget  
anything but you  
 
and yesterday  
I knew I was bound for hell  
knew it better than any  
silver studded Judas  
could ever preach  
 
today I roll you over  
my naked skin on yours  
my slim hands press  
your large hands to the bed  
as I sink onto your hellfire  
 
my hips roll the burning coals  
into a hungry past  
as we  
sate our lust  
for now  
in each others  
bodies  
 
and I might as well  
love you tonight  
 
We were going  
to burn anyway