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.