Dating a Catholic

"Who are you, God, to make me [Catherine]?"
I lost paradise long before you ended the relationship,
but we will never be done wandering the moors of our souls.

The first time I met you, you wore moonshine for irises
and even then, I could see how bleached-white-washed your morals were.
Heaven rode in right behind the words we exchanged,
and your diction is still so beautiful it breaks my heart.

You keep my phone number in your back pocket,
and underneath it, you wrote down:
"accountability, punctuality, and perseverance"
as if those three words that outlined your lifestyle
could somehow redeem your hatefulness in my eyes.

Sometimes, it worries me, because you hold others
to such unrealistically high standards, I become concerned
you will fall off your perch the same way you found
religious doctrine harder to follow when my body
was caught underneath yours.
I remember you pinning down my arms
the same way you crucified my friends on your false cross;
burdens too heavy for you to carry that you externalized
because you believe intolerance is a Thompson virtue.

I must admit I have days where I want to build your character;
because the foundation of our relationship paints prejudice
all over your face as if the the color of our skins blended in our kisses
could redeem your judgment of others, and baby,
I know you try so hard, but I can't stress enough how painful it is
to be in love with someone who hates the core of my being.

I can see you straining my soul through your constricting pupils,
as if there was some pedagogy I missed out in childhood,
and it sears my soul to see you try to accept me despite my flaws.
My pain is not beautiful, and I make no claims to martyr myself
at your hands, because all I can do is try to kiss away your hate.

They say tolerance isn't acceptance; it's simply bearing
the weight of the guilt you feel every time you hold me in your arms.