Personal Jesus

"But He was pierced through our transgressions,
He was crushed for our iniquities; the chastening for our well being fell upon Him,
and by His scourging we are healed."
(Zechariah 13:6)

     Sweet Jesus, sweep away my debts using Your blood as cleansing currency.  Spill enough to cover the costs of future errors.  Take punches.  Take piercings.  Be pissed on.  All for the joy of paving a possible path for me towards perfection.  The power of Your death throws will aid me greatly.  Your tears, milked by anguish, will conjure greatness from my soul.
     Drink from the bitter cup of your love for me.  Relish in my future ascension as the whip wraps around Your body.  Tell me of the pleasures blending with your torture, because it's all for me.  You are both my punching bag and my benefactor.  How romantic.
     I appreciate the outlet.  Your pain is the prism of which my sin and shortcomings shine through.  The mismanaged anger.  The problematic sexual compulsions.  The vanity.  Take it all and plunge towards death, having faith that there's life on the other side. 
     Who wouldn't feel loved?  Seeing your body hanging there, blood and water dripping from those lifeless limbs, I feel whiter than snow.  I feel renewed.  Strengthened.  I'm empowered by the sight of you upholding your end of a selfless bargain.  The lamb of God Himself slaughtered on the altar of my life... on the altar of my inabilities... on the altar of the original sin perpetually evolving in my heart.
     Don't we all want a personal Jesus?  After all, aren't we all suffering for someone else, too.  Sacrificing.  Spreading ourselves thin.  Swallowing the shame of others.  I haven't turned my face away while being spat on, either... I haven't shielded my body from weapons formed against me, because those behind me wouldn't survive the blow.  Thank God for Christ.  Thank God for a matyr persecuted for His undying belief in me?  Thank God for reciprocity.

Images above are snapshots for Alejandro Jodorowsky's "Holy Mountain"

Souvenir Soreness II

                At this time, his plane is probably taking off for Lima.  Not having the heart to look at the specifics of his itinerary, all I can feel is my heart stretching too far, too fast.  I worry if I’m elastic enough.  I imagine snapping being fatal.  I imagine possibilities that he’d never return, leaving me torn.  My imagination is being very unkind to me in this moment.
                Left alone in a hotel suite, in this spacious king-sized bed, my only company are these tingling sensations.  Without thinking, my fingertips are at my shoulder, softly tracing the indention of his teeth marks in my skin.  Once again, I find comfort in the souvenir of soreness.  I spent the morning revisiting my neck, my chest, my feet…  My ass, my thighs, my belly…  Although he’s gone, I can still feel the subtle throbbing from where he’s bitten me.  The further he travels away from me, the more I hunger for him.  I’m glad to have such a living example of his hunger for me.

I need all the validation I can get.



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