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My baby never fretted about what my hands and my body had done. She never asked, she didn’t wanna know. She saved my soul and kissed the bruises and scars on my body, not intending to heal, but to give it another meaning. Give it the love it always lacked.
She looks at me like I’m sacred, and in her hands I swear I illuminate like I’m actually holy. But she’s the one performing miracles, and doesn’t even realize. If nothing, nobody forgives me and my sins, I know she does. I know I still got her, and she receives me with wide open arms.
I watch as she gets on her knees and performs the holy prayer over my body, cleanses me of dirty pasts and poison on my veins. There’s a moment of silence when she loves me, before I get exorcised, screaming and contorting while she looks at me, so pleased, still with her mouth busy with prayers.
I face my own mortality in her sky-blue eyes, and I’m not scared. Heaven and hell are mere words when I’m with her, because I can’t think of a better place than this, and I don’t think she’ll ever allow me to go back to hell where I came from. Not when she makes deals with the devil and the holy spirit at the same time, making me shiver and cry in her presence, taking me to nirvana only to pull me back to the ground because she’s not done with me yet.
My baby sees the stars on my body where I could only see scars, and she paints me skies in whichever color I like the most, to seize my pain and soothe my aches, taking such good care of me I sometimes think she can’t be real.
Oh, but she is. Caitlyn Kiramman is as real as the soil my feet touch, and I can feel her when I grab her hair in a ponytail, keeping it away from her face when she summons on the pearl rosary, feeling her adoration when I never thought I’d be worthy of even a slight amount of attention. She sees me in all details, a 4K image, counts the stars in my freckles and draws pathways to heaven on the constellations, before kissing me in a way that can only be described as the reckoning itself.
Whenever her hands run through my skin, she tells me how divine she finds me. She calls me pretty and handsome, whichever I’m preferring in that moment, but goes so far from only appearance that sometimes I even forget that’s a thing. Sometimes, I’m just a celestial being in her presence, non-existing in an actual body, but in this state of pure bliss, while she puts my pieces back together one by one to make me whole again.
She put her love down soft and sweet, setting me free, but I’ll always come back to her loving, to the language I can only speak with her, to the tone of our common tongue only we know. It would seem stupid if she didn’t make it feel like the most important thing in the world. If she didn’t make me feel like the most important thing in the world.
Caitlyn sees my hurt and my pain as a work of art, and she recovers it to the closest thing to the real deal as possible. It's tough work, takes time, mistakes, starting over, but whenever she looks at me like I'm the only painting in the entire museum, it’s worth it.
There’s a moment of silence. She’ll never ask me about my wrongs, all she wants to do is make it right. Her mouth on me creates a vacuum in time and space, and we exist in this loud quiet of our own, in which I’m free to be hers, fulfilling her quietness with my own voice, because she taught me I had one.