Thirst.

Thirst.

Some people thirst for romance,

like a cherry ghost,

wanting and waiting to be popped.

It is a weasel

that’s been pawned

for a bevvie in the bar;

a different thirst:

a thirst for social acceptance

or an alcoholic need.

It is the unquenchable desire

for success,

and money

over family and love.

It is a thirst for knowledge,

for change,

for the acceptable to become

unacceptable,

to become extinct.

It is a thirst for escape,

as the key locks

and they wonder

just what they did wrong

as the nuns

reign down,

heavy and powerful

with their tiny rocks of fists.

It is a thirst for justice.

For a queer religion

to not fear women

or hate them

for their beauty,

naivete,

and youth.

It is that thirst

for forgiveness.

For the all powerful priests

to bathe their bodies

in the Holy water;

to let them dance in it,

free and wild,

bathing in their love of God.

Drinking Him.

Devouring Him.

Forgiving Him

for a religion that dooms them

at birth.

They wish to throw the water

up high into the air,

watching as it falls

like gravity’s tears.