The cross is not mine
but it swings from my neck,
nestles between my breasts
under cloth pulled taut to hide my
non-believer soul heading straight to damnation
for wearing a symbol gripped with faith.
Originally this iteration was just a
tourist trinket from Spain, bought due to
a fascination in gold stamped on scorched wood,
the colour of my sinner soul in desperate need of
a confessional; confession after confession
to repent for whispered prayers made in vain.
Playing a new role it is now in my possession,
desperate choked hopefulness reborn in
a hidden deity’s devotion still not truly believed,
an unexpected hyper-fixation to be run ragged before the
faux gold chain glimmers a phantom silver
and the water or earth reclaims this particular trinket
should I toss it away.