sacraments & pyromania

i kneel in my bathtub and think of praying
- an instinct or afterthought; i wrote a poem like this once.
there's ash in the water and smoke curled into the space underneath my fingernails
- i wasn't quick enough, the flames licked up my fingers
and found them tasting sweet -
my towel comes off bloody.
t h i s b o d y
is no place of worship,
nor is it holy