Casey Gilfillan

The guilt wraps around like a chain necklace. Thick cords, metal spiraling and woven around my throat, applying pressure enough to allow the passage of breath. The clasp is just beyond my reach, my hands aimlessly reach out instead of back and they find themselves pressed together, craving that divine path. Oh to rest my head in the arms of my god, to stab out my eyes and allow him to do the navigating. I cross arms for the free fall, but it does not take me. Where is He, and risen to what?

The loop is tightened and it suffocates, the absence of this security that I so desperately seek. How close can the divine truly be to this depraved rock, a vessel of contrived death that flourishes in vice? Oh to rest my weary spirit in the understanding of your lord, who saves and protects and blesses, who makes your path straight to submission. I would submit so surely, if it meant escape from the imprisonment of experience. You say it has happened, I only see the clouds.

And for all of the omniscience and potency, the barricades collapse, the bombs blanket the cities, the innocent are purged. I feel the tightening, the guilt broods heavily in my chest, my hands that were submitted to prayer receive no more than an omen of the quieting to come. The queasy feeling makes a home in my abdomen, my hands break mold and reach inward. My fingers wrapped around the chain, I am the dog on my own leash. Overwhelming violence upon the self, the ungodly figure of my fallible form, I set myself free from witness. I seek other means to alleviate the morbid chokehold of depravity.