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My religion is a weighted blanket by a roaring fire if not the sun pulling tears from my skin. I believe in the power of destruction; I shred muscle fiber to gain strength, I burn paper full of truths I no longer need, ashes and ink anoint my rebirth.
Sunday let me worship from my couch channel belief through fingertips, unlock wounds with plastic keys and light pressure so as not to bleed out too much as others have, making the mistake of leaning into histories of women without teeth,
of pasts without presents.
And so my prayer beseeches the goddess of cushions and covers, body heat and flame that she might comfort me when I feel, render me whole when I break sewing titanium into my fractures, hiding weapons inside my smile.