They say there’s no scene that humanizes Jesus more than his prayer at Gethsemane. Matthew, Mark, and Luke all reiterate the same desperate plea: “Take this cup away from me.” Luke goes even further in describing Jesus’ agony, so tangible it manifested as sweat that fell to the ground like drops of blood. It’s almost theatrical, in a way— the composed Christ inconsolable, the faithful Martyr faltering.
But I know that anguish is not ephemeral. For it festers within you, bursts out from you when you can control it no more, and ends with you. They only see the eruption. We hear about Jesus as a precocious child, questioning his earthly parents, “Did you not know that I must be in my Father's house?” Does knowing his Father mean knowing his demise? Did that comprehension come later? Was he as oblivious as Issac then, asking his father on their journey, “Where is the lamb for the burnt offering?” At what point did he realize that he was the lamb that God had provided? When he learned that fate meant him to die did he realize it entailed such cruelty?
It’s perfectly reasonable if he didn’t. The sacrificial lamb is always adored. Without blemish, without broken bones, without fault. They dote upon you like a prince until they pin you to the chopping block. Your father nurturing you with a knife in one hand, saying, I love you so much that I’ll let you bleed out for God.
And you’ve internalized it. You’ll cry when you see the altar, but you’ve long ago conceded that you can’t escape doom. So you bargain to make it a little more endurable, to meet the end with a bit more poise and dignity. It’s the final resolute “May your will be done.” It’s Issac struggling in his binds until his strength is spent, taking one last glance up at Abraham to whisper, Make it hurt less.
"Elegy for the Messiah by the Sacrificial Child-Lamb on the Altar", E. G. Harcourt
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i was a godfearing christian daughter
wearing a green tulle dress
and now im an ugly athiest son
and my ripped jeans look like a mess
i was a girl bowing to god
i was holding my scriptures on saturday night
now im a kid with nowhere to go
sitting with my friends, laughing in the moonlight
i was stupid, not happy
ignorance not really bliss
but now i'm a fag still in the church i hate
i don't think anyone's winning in this
i sigh and bow my head
oh, great god on high
but i don't hear his voice
just white noise
it echoes 'till im deaf
and i don't see no angels
just bright lights
and they flash 'till i'm blind
and i wish i could go back
i wish i could rewind
but i can't
so i get drunk off of lies and stupid little things
like a new name, and what if that person could love me
and what if my parents found a new routine
and what if i escaped into a religion that i could see
the god of, and what if he was really true
and what if my faith wasn't good enough, what would i do
if god came alive and i didn't pass the test
spend eternity alone, since i couldn't be the best
but for now i'll be a queer and look up at the stars
and in the corner of my eye i see the hurt, i see the scars
i see the pain and the hope and the ones who didn't care
and i see you, too, i see you right there
and god forbid, i decide to leave this fucked up scene
where everyone is hurt, where no one knows anything
please don't stop me, don't tell anyone a thing
need to make a clean break, no loose ends or left strings
and hey babe, its not like i'm contemplating suicide
but every night when i go to bed and i close my eyes
i want to sleep, i want to go, and i want to never wake again
a fate i wouldn't want for you, my dear pretty friend
but im ugly and dumb and stupid and mean
and so many times i've fucked up i don't deserve anything
i don't deserve happy endings and i don't deserve escape
i'm in a shitty cult, i have to be, i should have to stay
i should die and bleed and sink into the cold wet ground
i should cry, get lost and never get found
i should go away and never fall asleep
and i wont think of you, not a single thing
cause i have to let go, i'm not allowed to care
even when your scent is left in my hair
even when every time i think of you i cry
and i realize how much i don't want to die
i was a godfearing loveless angry quiet
christian daughter wearing a tulle dress
and now im a soft spoken sad boy in love
and i wish i wouldn't think of you at all
and i wish i wasn't such a goddamn mess
and i wish you'd stop looking at me
and i wish i could die
and i wish you'd hold my hand
and i wish i didn't cry
im a godfearing faggot who wants to be deceased
im an ugly ass sad boy full of poetry
im full of words and bugs and both are spilling out
and it'll be blood next, what a pleasure to takeout
all my guts and organs and blood and my brains
and on the outside pretend that i'm totally okay
i get drunk off of lies
i get drunk off of names
i get drunk off of you and our stupid little games
and i get drunk off of music and i get drunk off of art
and when i don't have poems to write i just fall apart
and poems are neat, stay in the cage
but this one i write sprawled over the page
cause big emotions don't fit
in itty bitty words
cause it's hard to get them out
it's hard to explain hurt
and i go in circles and write until it strips me
of everything i have, my agency
and you witness, you see all of me
but to conclude, you have to see
i love you
and i hate me
and i was a godfearing, angry, good old christian daughter
and now i'm just a son, and all i do is think
and i think that god's a stupid fucking creep
and he doesn't have a plan for me
and i think that i love you
and i think that i can't sleep
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For the ones joining my new writing-only blog, my baby Substack: I will upload one poem every day for the next 15 days, so expect some e-mails in your inbox! :)
If you have been here for a while, you must know I was in desperate need of a writing-only platform — in fact, if you remember, I even tried a side blog, but that didn't work for me (and the novel is cooking atm). So, for the sake of my peace of mind and my writing, I will upload all the poetry in here to this sparkling, brand-new Substack.
After a few days on that platform, though, I can already tell I'm not going to follow what I perceived to be the pattern. Do I feel like a fish out of the water? Yes. Do I plan to change? No. Is it good for ''marketing''? Nope! But I literally can't force myself into a non-authentic space. It gives me anxiety.
I believe in using the platform instead of letting the platform use me. I'm free. That is unnegotiable. So, I will do my best on my own terms, as many things annoy me about the writing culture of these times we live in and I refuse to wear the halter. Oh, I promise I'll never try to coach you, start mothering you, or try to sell you a "how to write poetry in 5 steps" guide. No hooking titles. I won't join the experts-on-shit FOMO cult to prey on other people's triggers or to feel ''good'' about myself at the expense of others. This type of thing actually creeps me out.
But I do promise we can just resonate and inspire each other by being honest and raw, by having a brave heart so we can keep being kind, and by pursuing truth, beauty and art... How about that? We can enjoy the vibe and cultivate this appreciation of words! We can even chat as writer friends, as reader friends or just as friends friends — and encourage each other through real, second-intention-free presence.
If my writing doesn't touch you, it's fine. If yours doesn't touch me, it's fine. It's not personal, it's not a bad thing. We are all finding our voice. The day you think you know everything, you're dead, so we have to keep searching, moving and growing together! How many times have I needed the words from @cssnder @goodluckclove @hersurvival or @remnantofabrokensoul, and so many others around here (iykyk)? And I'm very grateful for every word and idea you all shared here in this amazing space, helping me to keep going, to break from my shell and lay another brick in the foundations of what I want to create.
That is the beauty of it. Creation demands connection. That is respect and human experience. And I repeat it: sometimes what I create won't touch anyone but me.
Oh, but what if it does!
Well, that being said: I actually do have some crazy ideas for the Substack. At first, the focus was on creating some substantial and self-indulgent content about literature (I like to study). Although I still think that's important, exciting and valid, Poetry is making its way through my inked fingers more and more, demanding space, attention, and voice; so I will not neglect this calling.
What about the future? I don’t know. Paid subscriptions for specific academic literature content? Prophetic, devotional newsletters?Generating debates on books for the community? Just poetry that you can read for free and not engage at all because I can be quite antisocial at times? Digging around some old ancient advice on writing? None of the above? Anything is possible, really. For now, I will slow down and avoid contributing to the hamster wheel of modern despair for the speed of light living and likes.
For now, poetry, please.
And tea. Lots of tea, because it's raining.
The grass looks so green!
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How sweet the sound of severance;
Deep is the gouge of your flesh.
You howl the scream of a child unborn,
the gnarled hand of an empty womb
reached up to take you back.
What is an angel with no wings,
if not a man who screams for mercy at the sky?
The cradle of your mouth once a home for my praise,
the curse of your tongue now the bite of a knife.
Bleed the grief from my veins, my love;
paint the hollows of your ribs with my tears.
Make for yourself a home in which your father weeps,
O, Architect.
From the rot of my bones,
and the leather of my flesh,
build for yourself a cage of unexpressed torment.
Fathers are only fathers
when they break that which has been bestowed;
Know, if nothing else, that you are my son,
for the ivory jut of your coracoid bone,
is at once a knife a spear a stone.
How soft the bed in which I lay;
far above where you now rest.
Downy feathers from the wings I plucked,
under my cheek, a soft caress.
Heady is the taste of devotion,
the grit of Adam's rib on my tongue,
You played the part of the wanderer, boy,
now look at all the grief you've won.
Carved from me is the nucleus of you,
an entwining that shall never be undone;
When you look at the heavens,
you see a love unraveled,
But when I look at the earth,
I see only my son.
Wail the song of the damned, my love;
Hell hath become the Sinner's stage.
Sing your anguish to the fabrics of the sky,
until all of Holy Heaven tastes your rage.
One day, you will find your place again,
and on your knees will you beg.
A boy returned home
with pockmark scars
ready to have his feathers plucked again.
the death of the firstborn (exodus 11) {for @malinaa} // j.s.
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