I have learned to take your love (with two sugars).
It is like pouring your favourite tea into your favourite mug on a Sunday morning
(The one with a blue rim and mountains on it that your uncle got you on his hiking trip)
And having it scald your tongue and the roof of your mouth
In my Church
There are no stained glass windows,
or choirs to bellow tales of a fallen king.
There are no children weaving between pews
or grandmothers trying to hush them.
There are no bent knees and foreheads
pressed to the ground in faithful prayer.
You are the only thing I have ever worshipped as anything short of a god.
I want somebody who can love me the way I love myself.
With cruelty and vengeance but a gentle hint of obsession.
I want them to trace the ripples of my ribcage the way that I do
and pick apart every flaw that my eyes
have taught my body to own.
I want them to hate me the way I have always wanted to hate myself
but have never allowed.
I want to be loved with cruelty because it is all that I know