I can be fairly vague, it’s how I get away with my bullshit, my whole life. Have you figured out who the gods I meet are? Most of them I run across in homeless camps when I’m handing out food, weed, and hygiene kits. Yes, I am that asshole that gives homeless people free weed in a state that’s not legal. Sue me. Also, this song 👇 makes me want to do drugs and fuck. I still need to get that diagnosed.
He showed up in a hoodie, smelled like weed and wet dog, eyes red as the sun. Said he used to be the god of passion, but now he’s just trying to get through the day without crying in public.
He had a guitar with one string and a lighter that barely worked. Told me love was once his church, until people started turning it into performance art for followers and clicks.
“I used to live in people’s ribs,” he muttered, “now I squat in their bad decisions.”
This god doesn’t bless unions, he watches them crumble in real time, texting drunk apologies and Venmoing guilt money. He sits on rooftops with lovers who only kiss when they’re high enough to forget what they promised.
He burned his own temple down. Said the prayers got too quiet.
You ever see a god weep into a bong? It’s not tragic, it’s just Tuesday. He hits it like it owes him something. Maybe it does. Maybe we all do.
He told me love’s a joke told too many times. The punchline’s always: “I’m fine.”
But under the smoke and scabs, there’s still a flicker. A hope-shaped tumor lodged somewhere between his sternum and spleen. He won’t admit it, but he’s still rooting for us. Still wants us to get it right. Still believes in midnight phone calls and songs that break you.
He kissed me on the forehead, said, “Keep breaking. That’s how the light gets in.”
Then he vanished into the sunrise, middle finger raised, heart still bleeding.
Another god, another ghost.
And I’m still here.
Writing it all down so he doesn’t get forgotten again.
Read this on Substack where it first appeared — if you’re into that sort of thing.
