Divinity Threshold

They call me 
borderline saintly.
these hands make do and mend;
stitch hearts together in more ways than
one; these hands
mold sheets into feelings
and feelings into beings;
these hands are fragile and
I just want these words to mean
something, somewhere

but instead of wine 
we drink cheap vodka,
and the blood is my own- 
I think I bit my cheek.

They call me 
almost
almost there, almost something
worth talking about but even as I sketch words
into the crook of my arm-
words they teach to the kids and their parents
and their parents-
the ink smears and I am left with
almost something.
What does this mean? 
Can you hear me?

but instead of wine
we drink visions, like prophets
and the blood is my own-
half-moons dug into my skin.

They call me 
sacrosanct
but breathe sanction in the same phrase;
we are bathed, born in
sin but no one ever told me what it means
to be, only how.
Any proof I have comes from 4 a.m. infomercials and
the sparkling eyes of those
whose pockets are deeper than their
faith;
"God is here in the room,
right now.”
But when we raise the question
they respond 
"The entry fee to heaven
is worship
is worship
of an entity we've never actually seen”

They call me
a cynic
but when devotion and sacrifice
are interchangeable
I’d rather not play with the fire
they dance around

and instead of wine
we drink water, untouched and corrupt
and the blood is my own-
under my fingernails, for a reason.

Author's Note

i'm really bad abt typos i'm sorry

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[Chris]

Meet me near the campfire, conversing with they holy space of smoke and light. We echo the calls of our great ancestors, and send forth our lofty visions. All the while, we give our own blood to that inner fire, where we sit with all that live.