By: Cole Grennan
Sometimes I imagine myself a priest. Collared and chained to
my master’s back door, I wait diligently day in and day out. Sometimes,
a stranger will come, staring over the tall gates wrapped in vines. They
reach out a hand, offering salvation. Freedom, they whisper, temptation
dripping from their cupped hands. They bring with them tools of the
damned, ignoring the warnings I spit out. I am not a creation of kindness.
I was not born for gentleness. I bite.
I am loyal, and they are not Him. They do not know His peace. His joy.
He throws me scraps and cast-off declarations of devotion. “I promise, I
promise, I Am the Lord your G-d, and My Word is law.” And the law is
a heavy hand against my throat. And how I wait every dying day for that
gentle pressure. The chains that bite into the thin skin of me when I see
Him. Foaming at the mouth in the blistering cold, I ache to close my jaws
around His loving hand.