By Mat Gilson

One day God is going to kill me, thank you, God. But until then, while you are the one with the skin on, and live in my mind alike, you are the God of my small life. Thank you.

You exist to me when you are not in the room. You are not a ghost because I receive your messages directly to my flesh, rather than through the esoteric markings on the wall, or the conspicuous stopping of clocks. 

I feel your hands on me when you do not have hands, I know what you say when you do not have a mouth. Why pretend that I do not believe in you? My shame is too wild and flailing to ignore. 

My heart is pounding outside of my body, and blood pours out. Blood staining your clothes, blood pooling on the ground, blood pouring over your face and eyes, everything blood colored, blood collecting in our shoes, making them heavy. 

And flesh, and flesh, my flesh, your flesh, the flesh of God consumed to flesh. Uncomfortable to the touch, wet to the touch with my spit, with my spirit oozing out. 

Why pretend that I am better than this body? It is splitting apart, it has consumed me. It gives me pain and I like the feeling, it gives me relief and I love the relief. You are saying the words but I don’t understand. You pass me the words but I am scared of the feeling. 

Now the energy is seeping out of you and into me, my hands are laden with it. Now my mouth is saying the things you want me to say because you are filling it. You, the God of our flesh. You, consumed and all consuming. You are the God of this small room.