Saint Christopher. On your neck; on my neck.
As your body falls, it is Saint Christopher in my eyes in a single glint of gold. He scrapes my breast so that your lips fight with him for position.
Saint Christopher.
Saint Christopher. On your neck; on me.
You say you wear him because your father did. Is there a certain brand of arrogance in an atheist wearing his own patron saint? I ask you if you’ve found religion, and you laugh with a little hint of relish, reaching downward for my belt.
Religion is all in what you make it.
Saint Christopher between us. Saint Christopher in your eyes when you tell me please.
I’ll make a religion. I’ll make a religion of this, and wear idols in my dressing room, golden around my head. I’ll sing the prayers of this disease and bring them all to rest on the door to your soul that you slam so painfully shut when I ask.
I spent so many years of my life trying to make this all be me.
Saint Christopher. Watching you; touching me.
Saint Christopher. On your neck; on me.