Sunday Prayer

[Image Credit}(https://unsplash.com/photos/rNBYe4QlAIQ)

My religion is a weighted blanket by a roaring fire
if not the sun pulling tears from my skin.
I believe in the power of destruction; I shred
muscle fiber to gain strength, I burn paper
full of truths I no longer need,
ashes and ink anoint my rebirth.

Sunday let me worship from my couch
channel belief through fingertips,
unlock wounds with plastic keys and light
pressure so as not to bleed out too much
as others have, making the mistake of leaning
into histories of women without teeth,

of pasts without presents.

And so my prayer beseeches the goddess
of cushions and covers, body heat and flame
that she might comfort me when I feel,
render me whole when I break
sewing titanium into my fractures,
hiding weapons inside my smile.