I choose my Angels

Poetry for Queer Honi.

Holy places aren’t built of stone

Too cold to hold hope

Too hollow to be home

Holy places are made of hearts and hands

The eternal pulse of blood

The gospel in a whisper

I’ll pray at your altar

Your bed is my church

Every brush of skin

Softened by warmth

Is a miracle

Every side eyed smile

Beckoned by laughter

Is a blessing

Blood and body is the church

Leaving kisses as communion

There is no holy truth

For I am holy 

Only by you

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