suffering feels religious if you do it right

Suffering feels religious if you do it right. Kneeling at the foot of an idol appears innocent enough until the flame flickers out and all that’s left is cold stone and sharp smoke. When is it enough, once the breath trails out of my lungs, once I’m curled around what used to be a dream, worshipping something that never existed (my God). Is it tragic, the way i cling to what could have been, repeating actions deemed useless throughout history? The hopeless hero, bound to love and die, its Romeo and Juliet, except no one mourns the death of a drunken fool. It’s no wonder you abused the crack in my armour, when i paraded (still parade) my Achilles heel around for everyone to see. 

I hate the way i bow down for you, stabbing myself in the back instead of yours, aiming for your throat but grasping mine instead. It’s a futile substitution, but if it keeps you alive, it's worth it (is it?) i hate to be the bearer of bad news but the plane is falling and i threw you out the door, free falling or falling freely, modern love was always insignificant when i could express my adoration in words that are unpoetic poetry, flowing roughly, a technicality. I love you technically, in stereotypes and hidden emotions, in the dead of night, in ideal fantasies. And it kills me, a one way relationship with an unreachable angel, i would kill myself if i thought i could join you in heaven. Is it religious, the way i suffer for you, or masochistic, an unwinnable game?