holy, holy, holy.
these are the words he murmurs into your skin,
language of prayer, language of divinity, language of
worship.

holy, holy, holy.
he whispers it into your crook of your neck, rolls the words into
the hollow of your throat, into your bones, into your sharp edges.

holy, holy, holy.
a mantra. a litany. a prayer.

holy, holy, holy.
the way he looks at you, it’s like he wants to take you apart and study each piece of you,
and then maybe he’ll put you back together when he’s done.
maybe.

holy, holy, holy.
he stares at you, so hard you can feel it burning your skin,
and you think maybe he’ll kiss you,
or maybe he’ll eat you alive. you haven’t decided yet.

holy, holy, holy.
in the end, it’s a kiss, real as a punch and twice as hard,
and it hurts like a bullet pearling into flesh,
hurts like his eyes on the back of your neck, on your collarbones,
on your lips.

holy.
holy, holy, holy.

— on loving a god | m.c.p (via travmsoldat)