I Found God

I found God
I found Her
  in the split seam
  of my too-tight jeans
in the slickseared sigh
  I swallowed
  discreetly
  during the Zoom meeting
in the way my cunt clenched
  when the barista said
  “have a blessed day”
like he knew —
like he saw —
  the holy, hungry, howling
  thing beneath my skin

I found Her
  when I stopped apologizing
for leaking
  come or cry
  or truth —
  it didn’t matter —
when I let it stain the couch
  the shirt
  the silence
  and called it altar

I found Her
  in the way She whispered —
  “You think you’re ‘too much’?
  Good.
  Be everything.”

I found Her
  when I stopped climbing —
  stopped curating —
  stopped performing—
  and started kneeling —
  in puddles —
  in pleasure —
in the gorgeous, goddamn, gloriously filthy    truth —
  that the divine doesn’t live above.

It pools.
And waits.
For you.
To drink.
To drown.
To devour.

Because deep down
  beneath the laundry lists
  and Slack messages
  and polite silences
you know
  you’ve always known
that the most sacred things
  aren’t on pedestals.
They’re in the fucking puddles.