They Don't Know and I'm Not Telling


The further in I go, the closer I get to someone I’ve never met. Someone inside myself maybe. It’s like a pull, but nothing I’ve experienced before. As the base shakes my bones, vibrates my heart, my hands start to feel more like tools and not just weapons. My eyes begin to search for meaning, rather than serving as a warning to those walking too closely. I wonder if they know who I am, these people singing the praises of a man I’ve never met. If they knew I also sang the praises of a different man each night, would they continue to tell me it’s a joy that I’m here? I can’t be sure. I assume not. If they knew I too find salvation in a man, but not the way they describe, would they still shake my hand and welcome me? Probably not.

A different man every night, whispered words, feigned enjoyment, and then a bloody end. If these people realized I killed a different man every night, and two on Sunday’s, would they wonder why my eyes are bloodshot rather than filled with emotion during these songs? Who knows? They don’t know, and I’m not telling. God is good.




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