Smudge Me, I’m Holy

Smudge me up, Father.
Mark me like a failed exorcism.
I want people to know I flirted with God and ghosted Him after.
Or maybe he ghosted me first, who even knows anymore.

Ash Wednesday:
when I show up in fishnets and beat down Docs,
and let a man in robes rub soot on my forehead like it’s not the sexiest forehead in the room.

I’ve sinned.
I’m sinning.
I’m scheduling more sins for Thursday.
And still I stand here, in line behind someone named Katelyn,
pretending I came for the penance and not the aesthetic.

Ash Wednesday is for the girls who cry to Hozier in their cars and call it worship.
For the boys who cross themselves before stealing from Target.
For the they/thems who make out behind cathedrals and whisper, “forgive me later.”

I wore my eyeliner like armor.
Thick. Black. Smudged.
Like smoke signals from the parts of me that burned.

Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.
Cool.
But first, I’m gonna text my ex, bleed on God’s carpet, and take a selfie in the church bathroom mirror with the flash on.

I don’t give things up for Lent.
I give people up mid-sentence.
I give the devil a ride and charge her gas money.
I give myself hell before anyone else gets the chance.

The priest asked me if I’ve been faithful.
I said “define faithful.”
To who?
To what?
To a God who gave me anxiety and a complex about rosaries and blamed it on original sin?

My Catholic guilt is in remission but it flares up every time I come.
Every time I cut my sandwich diagonally like my mom did during Lent.
Every time I light a candle and say “just in case.”

Ash Wednesday is just eyeliner for regret.
The smudge you wear when you can’t wash the grief off.
The mark of a girl who keeps trying to be good and settling for passably survivable.

So smudge me up, Father.
Ash me like a Marlboro Light.
Cross me like you mean it.

Like you’ve read my browser history.
Like you know I asked the void for mercy with one hand flipping the bird and the other in a prayer position.

Tell me I’m dust.
Tell me I’m divine.
Tell me I’m forgiven.

Even if I’m not sorry.
Especially if I’m not sorry.
Especially if I look good doing it.