On the holiest of days, you go bad.

You show Jesus the nylons underneath your skirt

and sit on his lap at the computer chair.

He unzips his pants. He’s not

a virgin. He promises

not to hump you. He promises a soft little grip. So much

pain has happened to him. He almost

cut himself on purpose the other day,

but you’ve never held a knife to your wrists,

though you’ve thought about it once.

He tells you how he fasted

four years ago. He was concerned

with the ecosystems while the others

were blowing up stuff in a bonfire.

He doesn’t want to graduate this year. He

kisses your panties through the nylons.

He explains the heavens—

he tells you the name of each color before

it was named. You make

his problems yours.

He says there will be nails and a suicide.

He says you should be a music

plucked out of happiness. He says

if you write this down,

you put him in danger.