“i rise in reverse — less an ascent, more a hand clawed into my back bones, pulling me upward. God settles over me like breath, like a thing wounded in the long night. i drag my teeth over his, hurt cleaving to hurt, deathlessness to resurrection — we are old aches, old phantoms. he knows the iron-branded language of my stigma — just as i know the underside of his nimbus, the place where light seams to the horror of not-flesh; in my mouth, prayer is a city sunken at the heart of a tundra, soil frozen over in serpentine coils.”
— a nascence in contrasts
january 5th, 2019 / / lianna schreiber (via ragewrites)
