The girl I used to be
didn’t plan on the divorce,
the cracked leather on a dusty Bible,
condoms under the bed that
pray for responsible lust,
the mushrooms—
the ones that let you meet God—
and knees calloused for different reasons.

I swallowed needs.
Was a whore for self-erasure.
So quiet,
I almost disappeared.

But now—
communion is my body.
No sip and gentle bite,
but a whole feast.

Younger me is still
horrified by who I call a prophet.
Tell her the firm flesh and dribbled juice
make the pit worth it.