crumbling faith

i.

stark white marble walls

stare back at me blankly-

the paint’s peeling off

and is crumbling down

(it settles in the corners).

the air smells of faith.

beads of sweat line my forehead

(i wipe them away with the back of my hand)

and happy tears line

my mother’s dark eyelashes.

(she doesn’t wipe them away)

a group of lonely kids (choir, matthew, kaw-yer)

stumble on the stage and clear their throats-

my mother clutches the silver cross

hanging around her neck with

her sweaty, chubby fingers

and stands up (in respect, matthew, in respect)

and i follow-

(i don’t have a cross, so i dig my nails in my sweaty palms instead)

the children sing in their singing voices

and i mumble the gospel truth with them.

i see sideways and there He is-

his tall, gorgeous body well-oiled,

bathed in ambrosia-

Jesus

and He smiles at me-

a gentle smile; i smile back.

and then He vanishes.

the truth ends (amen, amen)

and i loosen the tie

around my neck.

i turn to walk out and

mother says-

‘there’s God in the air, matthew’

and so i inhale Him

(deep breaths, deep breaths, inhale the truth)

like cigarette smoke.

there’s God in the air.

ii.

everything’s a

happy blur- (not really)

pieces of colourful paper

dissolve under my tongue and melt into my saliva

like gold.

i’m falling

and i can’t even feel it- (maybe i can, i’m not sure)

i prick myself with disposable syringes

and ancient humiliations.

there’s something at the back of my head,

it’s plunging me into the dark (no no no i don’t want to go)

and there’s a tiny stage

with tiny kids (choir, matthew, kaw-yer)

but-

swoosh

i’m back,

i see spots spots spots (redgreenblue)

like the polka dots on

my mother’s blue dress i loved-

no no no i don’t wanna go back (i go anyway)

swoosh

and i see grass-

plush (it is spring in the meadow)

and there’s my mother in her blue polka dots dress (the one i loved)

sitting on a picnic mat with packets of bread and-

(matthew, here’s your sandwich)

and i’m running running running

to her and then the taste of tomatoes explodes in my mouth

and

swoosh

i’m back

but the tomatoes didn’t

they stayed with my beautiful mother

in the spring-hit meadow

and left me the taste of redblack blood.

(or was it tomatoes? i’m not sure)

i feel tears trickle down my cheek

trickle trickle trickle

i close my eyes and pray (what else can i do?)

the truth ends (amen, amen)

and i inhale

(there’s God in the air, matthew)

Him like cigarette smoke but all i smell is

sickly liquids in plastic bottles-

(is there God in the air, mother? if He is, why doesn’t he help me, mother?)

i see sideways and there He is-

He sees me with drooping eyelids-

dark holes beneath His eyes,

and rotting skin-

Jesus-shaped monstrosity

smoking joints with me

He looks at me-

with a resigned glumness; i glumly look back.

and then he vanishes.

and then i’m standing up (or am i? i’m not sure; i’m trying atleast)

but i can′t.

and i fall back.

there might be God in the air.

iii.

ice cold ice cold water hits my neck

and the hair on my neck stands up (in respect, matthew, in respect)

and i’m drowning drowning drowning

in my own head and

i hold the bathroom door for support

(but i’ve already fallen).

and my head is

spinning spinning spinning

i look at the holes on my arm

(where injections have punctured me)

and there’s a memory in my stomach

and i puke it out along with the vomit.

the lights flicker (or do they?)

and i fall down face-up face-up

and something bursts in my head.

i feel warm blood

creeping down my neck

but i can’t do anything about it

(or can i? no you most certainly can not, matthew)

ice cold ice cold water mixes with

warm sicksweet blood

and i see myself die

from above.

i see sideways and there he is-

in all his trivial glory-

matthew.

i smile at him a sad smile.

he smiles a sad smile back. gently. intimately.

there is no god in the air.

only my crumbling faith.

Aadit is a fifteen-year-old living in Delhi, India. He has previously written for school magazines and some literary magazines. His poetry is related to topics that drift away from the normal and explores topics like human trafficking and religious beliefs. He spends most of his time thinking about writing, and when he starts writing, he ends up doing something else. Other hobbies include killing time on YouTube and Netflix. He is also a strong supporter of minority groups and the LGBTQ+ community.