No Rest for the Wicked

Two things stand out to me in this post the most. The first is that God takes Mercy on us because we are the ones he created and he wants to see us do well. God’s goal is not to see us demolished. The second thing that really stood out to me is the very end where it says there are no places of respite for the wicked.

I am the wicked. I do not pray. God knows I need to, that not only do I need to offer prayers for those around me, but that I need prayer myself.

God, deliver me from my thoughts of dying. From being stranded from my own mind. From looming larger than color.

God knows best that I need rest. Sleep. Equilibrium. I am searching for my Lectio Divina book. Until then, God please help me. You know the trouble I have been in.

Sex

Like a strobe light,

my nipple flash from my

bra cups,

overflow of myself and my softness.

He seizes me with his smart hands.

He knows what to do.

He will tease my peaks

and stroke my heart in

small, deft movements.

This is the game we play—

him catching me over and

over again like a ball.

I throw myself into clothes,

then shed them like unwanted baggage.

It is dark at the fringes

of my lomographic mind,

and in the center is my man,

plunging into me like a

lamp into an outlet,

completing my loop.

My hips squeezed in the

straps of lingerie,

I wait breathlessly for that

meaningful motion of his

hands tugging my panties

down just a little,

giving me permission to

unwrap myself

in his mute language.

My fire begins at my neck.

The beginning of pleasure

presides over the creased

space between shoulder blade

and ear.

That is where he starts—

at the beginning—

wise to my whimsical womanhood.