God is a joint at sunrise
and her name is Aurora
She doesn’t walk, she drips
barefoot in dew, eyes red as revolution
lips chapped from chanting
and bong hits
She rolls herself in bedsheets
and holy smoke
her altar is a couch with a missing leg
a coffee-stained tarot card
and three lighters that barely work
You don’t pray to Aurora
you inhale her
slow
greedy
trembling with want
She’ll split you open with a grin
kiss your forehead
then ask what the hell you’re still afraid of
like fear is a joke she stopped laughing at
before you were born
Her vagina is the universe
unfiltered, unwashed,
smelling of weed, sweat,
and your best mistake
She doesn’t fuck, she baptizes
and if you’re lucky,
she lets you stay for breakfast
You don’t worship her with silence
You moan her name in smoke
You exhale her truth
then beg for another hit
Aurora doesn’t save you
She lets you burn
until you realize
you were fucking divine all along
Read this on Substack where it first appeared — if you’re into that sort of thing.
