I heave out gravel and tar from my mouth,

The tapestry of my esophagus coming undone

stitch by stitch

as I purge and produce rocks and stones.

The Father stares at the altar to my innards

on the floor

with scorn and disdain and disappointment,

that I dared to gift Him something akin

to precious stones and jewels ⸺

but not quite.

And He tells me it would have been better if

I gave Him no offering at all.

So I nod and swipe sanguine from my lips

and rivulets from my eyes.

And I kneel down and lick my vomit

of tar and gravel, painstakingly,

until the floor is as pure as it had been.

And I resolve to try again to worship Father.

Hopefully, one day, I'll do it right to please Him.

Until then, I will return to my cove down below,

and I shall press my brokenness together,

and burn myself in the fire

until stone gives way to crystal.

Until I am worthy in His eyes.

Someday.

Not yet. Not quite.

But someday, I might.