24.12.21
09:00
so you found the sins you left in the jordan lying belly-up in the salt lick at the edge of town, and now the man on the television says the sickness is back like a toothache. you kept tonguing the rotten bone and now there's no christmas anymore, just another baby we'll have to mourn come spring. so you gave up holiness in exchange for a love that could warm your hands, and now there's not enough time left for all the hail mary's it'll take to save you. i get it. you need somebody to tell you you've done well. you need a good coat and a hot breakfast, or a cigarette, or a stick of gum, anything to keep the confessions from spilling from your mouth onto the carpet. you need me to tell you god isn't real, wasn't, wouldn't want to be. you need me to tell you god is jealous of us, god's hands are cold, god never saw a christmas tree and he never felt the way i do when you come home and start washing the dishes with your shoes still on.