The Tiny Crack on the Floor

my devotion to your lifestyle no longer exists
someone doesn't just go through that and come out still enslaved to the facade of duty
i have no gender, i have no furniture
i walk into my temporary apartment,
the empty space that is a bridge before i renounce you in full
because im in no rush to leave, now that i understand that it was never possible for me to go back the second i wished to be free

the thing about growing up in heaven is that you'll always be afraid of hell.
and you're afraid.
you're afraid of death.
but I've seen death, i am death.
and if you grow up in hell you begin to appreciate the fire,
you make a deal with god, and pour water over the flames
that's what I did one day.
i looked where no one else did.
i looked down into the ground.
i kneeled down and put my head on the floor
that's when i saw the tiny crack on the ground
it was so tiny i wasn't sure if it was real, but i decided to make a mirror and put it at the end of a thread.
after hours of excruciating silence, splinters and torn up fingers, i managed to get the thread through the crack.

what i saw in there you will never believe.
i can't speak it because i knew i had died,
i knew i had been dead, but somehow, that's when i began to breathe,
i was born that moment i struck my eyes with lightning bolt, deep underground, and what was in there was heaven, but this was heaven,
and you were looking right back up at me.
it was you- it was you.

no, i don't think you understand.
i don't think you can begin to understand,
because only you know what i saw.
and the more i recount it to you, the less you'll see.
and i don't think you realize your worth,
no, i don't think you do.

once the truth burns into your soul in the pits of hell,
there is only one thing you know, one thing you are devoted to, one thing that was and has always been there--

my sandal shoes.
yes. they are shoes and they are made of sandalwood.
I'm glad we had this talk.