I’m convinced no man actually knows

what six inches looks like. You like your poems

short, but your men hung, my friend hissed at me.

It’s not my fault a man’s ego

is usually bigger than his masculinity.

I’ve sung false praises of you’re the biggest

I’ve ever seen during secret midnight worship services

in my dorm room. You lapped up blood left

in between my legs like it was the last communion

you’d ever take, one last hallelujah in this alter

we made together. I cracked my tooth

on your broken, stale bread and chomped

on the pieces until it turned to ash and dust.

You nailed me and left me on the cross

with your stained glass lies of salvation.

Hand on the Bible, I’m sworn to confidentiality

of your premature confessions. Count the

chain of roses on my wrist – one for each  
prayer I’ve sent alone. You’re ready for your

second coming, but I’m still waiting on my first.