I’m tired of religion.
The sinking feeling of this creation,
And you would scorn me for loving
These things that make it real
These things that we believe in
They are yellow, sticky, false
They are ugly
They’re so ugly
And that’s what makes them count
We remember what haunts us
We remember what kills us while we’re still living,
Will I remember the sweetness of a touch?
The movement of a dance?
Lord knows, they say.
Lord knows.
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