Hannah Elliott

is that a crucifix in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?

I’m convinced no man actually knows 
what six inches looks like. You like your poems 
short, but your men hung, my friend hissed at me.
It’s not my fault a man’s ego
is usually bigger than his masculinity.
I’ve sung false praises of you’re the biggest
I’ve ever seen during secret midnight worship services 
in my dorm room. You lapped up blood left
in between my legs like it was the last communion 
you’d ever take, one last hallelujah in this alter 
we made together. I cracked my tooth 
on your broken, stale bread and chomped 
on the pieces until it turned to ash and dust.
you nailed me and left me on the cross 
with your stained glass lies of salvation. 
Hand on the Bible, I’m sworn to confidentiality
of your premature confessions. Count the 
chain of roses on my wrist – one for each 
prayer I’ve sent alone. You’re ready for your
second coming, but I’m still waiting on my first.

About the Author: Hannah Elliott (she/her) is a poet and graphic designer from Savannah, GA. She is a senior at Young Harris College and Editor-in-Chief of their literary magazine, Artemas. She has been published previously in Artemas Literary Magazine, Sims Library of Poetry, and Empyrean Literary Magazine.