It Will Never Be The Cure

𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗔𝗥𝗬 | 𝗜𝘁’𝗹𝗹 𝗡𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝗕𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗖𝘂𝗿𝗲

𝗜. 𝗗𝗲𝘃𝗼𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻
Love was never a sin to begin with.

My life was buried in my mother’s Bible,
deep underneath,
drowning beneath the sorrows
I should have left in the beginning.

“Love thy neighbor,”
unless she’s your daughter,
who learned to love
someone else’s daughter.

I prayed down to my knees,
until they bruised black and blue.
I kept my hands bound to rosaries,
thinking they’d become the cure.

I prayed to turn out right,
to never taint my own bloodline.

I craved their acceptance.
I craved being pure.
I craved being true.

𝗜𝗜. 𝗥𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗹𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻
I began writing devotions,
not until every word and rhyme
led me back—not to the shrine—
but to the girl I saw that time.

She’s in every salvation,
every psalm I’ve searched for.
Her love felt so holy,
so pure—beyond compare.

If only I could tell Him
how her love felt like heaven,
and that her touch was worth
every salvation
ever written.

Would He call it a sin?
Would He drown me
to repent,
to remember who I’ve been?

Now my head is full of poison,
and my heart is full of doubt.

And it feels like medication.
It’s good for me,
I’m sure.

But it doesn’t matter
how that love feels anymore.

It’ll never be the cure.

𝗜𝗜𝗜. 𝗚𝗼𝘀𝗽𝗲𝗹
I was drowning in my own sorrows,
trying to fight
and find the answers that followed.

But to hold her was enough
to soften some of the pain.

I left.
I wept.
I prayed for a cure,
just so you could hold me once more.

Now I dig my soul
from the pages of my mother’s Bible,
and I run to His temple.

For I have done nothing wrong
but simply love another.

My head was never filled with poison.
My heart was never lost in doubt.

And in her arms,
I linger and wonder
if hell is yet to come.

I don’t mind it at all,
for at least
I’ve come to know
what heaven feels like
in her peace.

There was never a cure
for what I’m feeling,
for love needs neither fixing
nor labeling.

No amount of scripture
could ever be the cure,
because love was never
something
that ever needed a cure.