The Absence of a Star

We met in the margins, where the lines ran crooked,

where words never quite fit but still belonged.

You moved like a marionette with cut strings,

and I thought, finally—someone who stumbles like me.

Your sister left home,

but not before the safeties clicked off.

Blood ain’t thicker than a loaded gun.

For a while, I almost felt like a stand-in.

I thought you understood that part of me—

the part that smells rain on the wind,

the part that loves a country that never loved me back,

the part that prays when the walls start closing in.

You always had a way of filling a room,

I thought you were made of steel and stars,

a rare cowboy in a world gone soft,

your wheels rolling like thunder over dusty highways.

But I saw what lay beneath—

the rust in your spine,

the cracks in the flag you flew so high,

the venom coiled behind your tongue.

You called every man queer, every sinner damned—

but never flinched at a wedding ring left on the nightstand.

You called them sisters on Sunday, sluts by the neon glow,

told them to cover up while undressing them with your eyes.

I pointed toward the cross, but you never really saw it—

just stared past, like I was speaking a language you’d never learn.

You liked me because I’m white.

You liked Hitler more.

I thought you called on the same Savior,

but you never knew His name.

It wasn’t Christ you clung to—

just the absence of a Star.

And when you pocketed faith like loose change,

burned it fast on powder and praise,

I tried to warn you soft.

It’s true,

my hands are small and my heart is bent on grace,

but Lord, if I could grab you by the collar,

shake you like a judgment-day preacher,

and rattle repentance into your bones—

I know I would.

How many souls did you lead into the wilderness,

claiming you knew the way home?

And when I called you sobbing,

grieving the sin you almost pulled me into,

you were quiet.

For a second, 

I thought you understood.