the hem of his garment
—
for he so loved me
he gave his only...
he gave his soul for mine
he gave me grace
he gave me healing
he gave me...yet
i didn’t have him
he didn’t have me
for he so loved me
he stayed
he felt like he was always leaving
and some days, i pushed him away
for he so loved me
too late i ran to him
and he loved me all the same
for he so loved me...
he gave me his last life
so that i may have faith
that i was worthy of being saved
for he so loved
because he loved me
i love him still
dw | 1.16.21
rxgs| 1.17.22
About the Creator
ren s.
he,they | queer trans writer interested in topics of modes & rules of social engagement, class, gender, and social violence.
Red Shelves
Death is a black hole. Think about it. A black hole is the corpse of a star, something once warm and bright, now come to the end of its life cycle. But some will argue that the cycle of life does not end with death. That death is merely another path we must walk once our bodies expire and our souls ascend. In that moment, when the fuel in the star’s chemical tank hits empty and the shiny matte coat explodes into supernova, the mass left behind – the corpse – becomes a black hole. We understand that, around such a vast cadaver, dimensions work a little differently in death to the way we’re used to in life. For example, light cannot escape the pull of a black hole when it hits the point of no return. That’s where it gets its colour. Space itself is contorted by a black hole. That’s where it gets its funny shape. Even time. Time slows right down the closer you get to it. The closer you get to a black hole. The closer you get to death.
By Matthew Curtisa day ago in Humans
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