These images made me hollow,
Carved out my heart and left my flesh.
These images made me mute.
Cut out my tongue and told me to sing.
These images made me blind,
Gouged out my eyes and left my mind.
These images made me deaf.
Chopped off my ears and played me a song.
These images made me a machine,
Cut off my manhood and claimed that they made me.
They told me to work, to play, and to follow them instead.
They told me they loved me but their love was cheap,
It cost a mere click.
These clicks formed an orchestra of endless regrets.
Your voice was lost amongst the chaos of their silence.
My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?
But you did not.
I forsook myself.
I demanded my own crucifixion.
I took that voiceless siren and commanded that they nail me to her.
My cross was made from faceless flesh,
Nails driven in by desire fulfilled,
Golgotha my humanity untempered.
And I died upon that hill.
I wish it were only once.
AND ON THE THIRD DAY, AT DAWN…
I awoke, alive, for a power I had never known filled every fiber of my broken body,
Commanded me to rise, and I walked out of my tomb.
For the stone had been rolled away.