Five a.m. and she's Catholic because she's Guilty.
The air comes on and she is engulfed in chill,
Unsavory,
Aching with the weight of unholy ugliness
And too much extra fat.
She sparks the light to pray by the window,
But to no avail.

It is this, during the nighttime, that I am offered to the throes of sleep and half-sleep,
Miles away and eons closer,
Downing unlabelled pretenses and faking lucidity,
That I am lost.

Six a.m. and she cannot sleep for the cracks in her blinds,
The sheets have slipped from her bed and she curls around misjudgements,
Preconceptions,
Faulty by default, man-made,
Stubborn as a mule
And malleable as torched steel.

It is this, during the early morning, that I am discomforted by inhibitions and exhibitions,
Desperately blinded and likewise unfeeling,
That my roommate barks in her sleep,
And undoes my fears.

And this is something unbeknowst,
Incomprehensible.
How am I supposed to feel about this prime example of God?
I am Godly and Godless and

Seven a.m.
And she disguises in Sunday dresses in a mirror under a crucifix
And she has all the answers,
But it doesn't quell a thing.