i’m hungover and jesus is kind of hot

my head throbs in tune to the organ’s wailing and my back aches against the pew polished by thousands of asses and sweating palms before me, praying lord i am not worthy and i can’t help but think, as my gaze follows the incense smoke, rising from the censer to the pristine white marble of the altar, and lands on jesus, hanging bare from a crudely cut cross, that he’s kind of hot, and i clench my teeth so tight i can hear the rumble in my ears, but i still don’t take my eye off of his slender, silky fingers and his creamy blood dripping from his palms like the sweat dripping down my back and can’t stop this yearning pang of loneliness not in my chest or my heart but my stomach, sitting among the acid and single piece of white bread, and the priest whispers hypnotically may the body of christ keep me safe for eternal life and i am still gazing at the body of christ, but it’s not because the taut marble skin of his ribcage but because he’s so sublime, hanging over the priest’s glossy head, willing to sacrifice anything for you – for me – and i know if we were in love that he would never leave me, except maybe he would get tired of me because he is exalted and i am nothing and he would ask too many questions about why i do the things i do and i don’t want to have to explain myself to anyone else ever again, not even to the alabaster lips and recessed eyes of christ, and his forgiveness would make me sick, but maybe it’s just the lingering whiskey, and the blood of christ, amen, that’s making me want to vomit on the immaculately dressed family in front of me

i don’t get up to take communion today.