you have built entire shrines to his mouth,
living in a cathedral shaped of all his harsh
words and discarded teeth.
stop writing psalms about his tongue,
prostrating yourself at his lips;
he does not understand
you are hanging your moon on him.
this is sacrilege.
neither he nor your god deserve that.
his jaw, you've made into a hollowed out ship
you ride home from loneliness.
on the sea of your insecurities,
he is like sand, scarce.
how many pilgrimages have you
made into his body?
how often have you offered
your burnt hopes to the holy space
inside his throat?
the way you breathe his name
i know you think burrowing yourself
into the inside of his cheek each
night is paradise.
but when he swallows you whole,
the false gods you found in his
will only prove wood
to the fire in his belly.