Kripa

“In this world, you are what I say you are, and I say you are a ghost, a long night's fever dream that I have finally woken up from. I say you are the smoke-wisp memory of a flame, thawing ice suffering under an early spring sun, a chalk ledger of debts being wiped clean.

I say you do not have a name.”
― S.T. Gibson

“I made you into my private Christ, supplicated with my own dark devotions. Nothing existed beyond the range of your exacting gaze, not even me. I was simply a non-entity when you weren't looking at me, an empty vessel waiting to be filled by the sweet water of your attention.
A woman can't live like that, my Lord. No one can. Don't ask me why I did it.
God, forgive me.
Christ, forgive me.”
― S.T. Gibson, A Dowry of Blood

“This is my last love letter to you, though some would call it a confession. I suppose both are a sort of gentle violence, putting down in ink what scorches the air when spoken aloud.”
― S.T. Gibson, A Dowry of Blood

“I suspect, Lord, that when you combed
the constellations for my elements,
the stardust was still rife
with the ghosts of fallen angels.
I can hear that darkness tapping at my ribs
and what’s worse,
I’ve learned to sleep through the sound.”
― S.T. Gibson