Blood of the Beautiful Stupid

The Christian Satanist

I am the blood of the beautiful stupid, the child of the blaze and the bruise, the one who kissed chaos full on the mouth then blamed the sky for the wound.
I have called myself chosen while crawling through filth, have shouted hallelujah with dirt in my teeth and pride in my spine.
I have loved what broke me, fed what consumed me, laughed in the face of the void just to prove I was still here.
And maybe that's the joke of it. Maybe survival is ugly. Maybe grace arrives barefoot, covered in ash, without the polished language people use when they've never had to crawl.
Still I rise. Not clean. Not pure. Not finished. But breathing. But burning. But honest.
And sometimes honesty is the closest thing to holiness a broken man can hold.

From the collection

Your Weird, Your Wounds, Your Why

68 pages. 5 movements. Poetry from the edge of shadow and revelation.
What you feel is not a flaw. It's a fire.

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