The God in me

Not that I am god like,

I would really hate if so,

at least the kind that lives in my head,

of anger rage and woe

the god in me pushes

his thumb into my neck,

and turns my head to face him,

jumping ship

to face the wreck

the god in me asks nothing,

command is how he speaks,

he birthed holes in my conscience

and shames me when it leaks

he made me daughter, sister, man,

but I toss in my own bed,

for he called my “father” to speak

his words

after blessing me with dread

I feel his eyes watching me

not from above but in,

the creases of the soiled mind,

between soft bone and skin