I have never been whole.

I have only ever learned to live in dichotomy.

I am either a saint or a sinner.

Vile or virtuous.

Holy or a heathen.

There is no in between.

Yet, I have learned to live two lives so as to feel that I am alive.

When the morning mass begins, I rip out the horns that I have hammered into my thick skull so that piety may bleed through my cynicism. I screw the halo on my head like I am tying a noose. I kill myself in a thousand ways so that I may sing hymns in my funeral.

I cleanse myself of the colors and transgressions that mar my holiness.

I kneel and I pray that I am forgiven for the sins that I carry.

I pray that I am not perceived nor prosecuted.

I pray—

but I cannot listen.

I am numb. I am deaf. I am pure.

My mother smiles.

The congregation sings.

I am welcomed into the fold.

But I have already folded myself in so many ways that I am ripping at the creases.

So I try to find the chapters and verses where I am still on the precipice of a worthwhile life.

When the night comes, there is no light. There is no choir. There are no eyes that burn deeper than melted wax on an impure heart.

There is only you.

You, and the affection that you only admit when you are three drinks and two cigarettes in, and you don’t know who else to run to or who else would want to kiss your bruised lips,

You, and the guilt and shame that gnaws at the back of your throat when your grandmother asks when will you get married, or when your father asks for a grandson to carry his legacy,

You, and the space between confession and apology, promise and compromise, that we always seem to find ourselves in even when we are tangled in the same rigid bed,

You, and the unforgiving venom in your voice when you order me to return to my apartment at 2 a.m. after you’ve had your fill,

You, and this hollow thing you have convinced me is love.

But you are just another god that demands a blood sacrifice.

I am filled with a million memories, but I am alive in none.

I only seek sanctuary when it’s the warmth of your skin.

I have tried to live two lives,

But not once have I felt like I could breathe.

I have lived two lives, of sin and salvation.

But in both, I am dead, and I am buried beneath.

The Frontman