I am a holy man.

I do my fighting, my fucking, for God Almighty. 

She’s a sinner; she’s got a sinner’s thoughts inside her, a sinner’s tongue inside her mouth. And she’s got me, down on my knees, preying for her. Putting my holy tongue up inside her as well.

She don’t believe in the gods I tell her about; she don’t believe much in anything I say. She don’t believe in much more than her exboyfriend’s fists, and the rattling rhythm they brought down upon her. 

She took his abuse though. His cruelty was like a big bruised blanket she could wrap herself up inside of. Life’s that. It’ll keep knocking you down, if you just keep getting back up. You gotta knock it back every once in a while.

She’s knocking me backwards, like a drink, like she’s pushing me backwards on over myself and down the stairs. She’d like to see my fall, she’d like to see me break. 

She hates men, mostly ‘cause she ain’t ever met a real one.

I wish I could break her losing streak, but I ain’t anything real. I got this big empty thing living up inside me, just like every other dead-man-walking in this world who’d fooled himself into believing that he’s something real.

Yeah, she could use something real in her life.

But I am just a holy man.