It was the breath we took when we first met,
in tones of gunfire grey, your first against my shoulder —
golden, you came, with all the glory of your demolition,
a happenstance saint I might've foretold if I believed in holiness at all.
 
And maybe we're built to live, last, and die;
maybe our knuckles were carved to control, take, and bruise;
but you fell into all my precepts that demanded coarseness
with a soft touch textured by scar tissue
and wrecked me, truly.
 
I forsook religion two days in
but you're a creature of God, with your rosary lips and Bibles decorated with bronze.
And yet, by heaven, I think my love is as rare as your ire —
the steely, godly kind,
fitting you all too well, well enough that it makes me want to knock one of your screws loose.
 
I'll do it one day — knock your screw loose, that is.
Yeah, with bloodstains on my teeth,
I'll stare up at you,
watching your dawning horror at the hand you moved so thoughtlessly
with a grin on my split lip,
with the satisfaction of a godless man;
and by Satan, my awe of you I'll sweetly swallow down.