On Worshipping Gods People Believe Are Dead

aphelionbruise:

It’s winter, which
means it is negative
seventeen
degrees outside, which means
I’m on the rooftop
burning incense again,
prayer
keeping my lips from freezing off.
I
hear Her tell me to go back inside before
the
cold makes me die up there, but I tell
Her
that She is fire enough- the sketch of
a
lion on a scrap of paper in front of me,
the
epithets scrawled in blue ink on my
forearm
where my long sleeves can hide
them.
Accidentally saying oh gods in class
and
pretending I just really love Rick Riordan.
She
finds me in my dreams and tells me She
will
be here when it is safe for me to worship
Her
but I shrug Her worries off, I am Her
lion
cub, I am young and still soft but I was
built
to survive. Remind Her the Gods-
not
just my Gods but the rest as well- are
always
calling out. This is resurrection
by
worship and my mother’s church does
not
feel holy. I call myself devotee, I call
Her
patron. Somewhere, a girl is learning
to
put claws on, the burden of life as a battle.
Somewhere,
Sekhmet is teaching them how
to
properly slash and stab, how to win a fight,
and
how to forget. Somewhere, a girl is
learning
how to love enough to hold her
family
together. Somewhere, Hethert is
teaching
her that it isn’t her job to keep
wood
from splintering. Somewhere,
Serket
is teaching her to be the stress on
the
beam if she has to be. To survive.
Somewhere,
Bast is teaching a woman
how
to love her strange, wonderful daughter.
Right
here, I light the candles with a lighter
I
stole from my father’s desk. I use my body
to
shelter the flame from the wind.