Photo by Joaquin Murillo

He assaulted me with his poetic prowess. Thrusting me to a rapturous delight, that stung my tongue like salted watermelon, juicy, sweet, and bitterly divine.  This man, this sweet water bandit,  didn’t have to take it cuz I gave it to him, this David to my Goliath, this nigga-He made me walk not run, for there was work to be done, a message to be delivered, and a body to be warned. You see, I chose to be ignorant of his truth, recalcitrant, straight up disobedient, thinking maybe just maybe he’d let me taste his wrath.  And I’d swallow the pain, savoring every last drop of Him.  No S&M, no latex, whip and chain. This was about an ancient struggle between truth and falsehood, dark and light; and He was the messenger bringing me the light. A prophet in my bed, loving me with such veracity, such conviction, such patience, that I just wanted to sin. Again. And again. And again. So that he could

Forgive me

multiple times

like Amen,

Hallelujah.

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