the preacher man.

by saracrolick

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on a Tuesday I woke to a preacher preaching.

he dipped figure eights inches from a hazel gaze—spreading the good word of salvation.

I felt myself transform that morning—the womb keeper of sacred secret things. and I carried his gospel through weeks of quiet ritual, days upon days of bible thumping. and the truth, it would set me free.

I saw signs like diamonds break through the grey shades of my deepest fears. I listened as blessed truths sweetened the breath of the daily hum.

but on a Sunday the crimson came; wiping clean the pages of well-intentioned prayers. the preacher man is dead, and the good word’s gone with him.

this post was grown on the gram