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all the choirs in your head

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we are not your gods, they say, with their hulking colony ships and red beams of destruction. do not worship us, they say as their temples and churches crash into your world, as their congregation spread into the streets, bringing gospel word of your annihilation with them.

you hide, because hiding from gods seemed wise that morning when you discovered you were out of coffee. you hide in closets, under beds, in trees and abandoned buildings, canvas tents staffed by military men who are far less distraught by the arrival of the gods than they should be. you ask and they simply say, we were warned. they hand you a gun and you learn how to use it, they tell you that it’s for killing gods.

only they don’t call them gods. they call them reapers. cannibals, marauders, husks, brutes, ravagers, banshees (you’re warned from those, your best bet is to run, but the weapon is heavy in your hands; someday).

we are not your gods, they say, we are your salvation through destruction, prepare to receive us.

you kill your first prophet on a tuesday afternoon. the husk is upon you before you realize and you kill it with your fists. your knuckles scraped by its machinery, its blackened blood on your skin, there’s a manic victory rising inside of you.

they are not gods, you are reminded when being taught barrier defense. gods cannot be killed, the military man tells you. you manage not to laugh when he turns his back.

silly boy. you leave a body count of prophets and disciples in your wake and prove him wrong. of course gods can be killed.

you walk past their cathedral when you intentionally take a wrong turn. you’ve been killing their followers for months, you want to know what your gods look like up close. even they say that they are not gods, but you’ve never believed that they are anything less.

you exist because we allow it

the air shimmers against your soot-stained skin and your head begins to throb but you walk forward, the need to see and touch your gods too much to resist.

we have no beginning we have no end you exist because we allow it

blood drips from your nose and the world vibrates and shifts to the left. you can feel the air rearrange itself to fit you. you drop to your knees before the cathedral and look upward. your eyes scream and your bones burn, but you have seen.

laughter bubbles up out of your cracked lips, maniacal and inhuman, as you are dragged inside. the voices echo against your skull, slick with your own belief.  the scrape of metal and then, nothing.

we are your gods