I don't know what you meant by calling me your churchmouse, but I never was content with knotholes in heartpine or mozzarella cheese.  I never was content with dark and dusty corners, or with reverently whispered hallelujahs when Victorian sunbeams screamed in shock at your vulgarity and fainted on the floor of our chapel.

Andandand I never told you this,
but I'm living in your coffee can.

I've never been to a Baptist revival, but I've heard that, even two counties over, their songs are still as clear as the dewdrops on a spider's web--though your tongue was always the better weaver--or on the grass that's only as green as a bout of nausea.  But my heart would sing your praises as loudly if you'd only set it free.

Andandand each morning, for your cup,
you'd take my bed, replace the lid,
and leave me many sleepless days in
c-c-c-caffeinated--

Preachers and priests get to stand on their altars and shout their love to the floorboards and the rafters and row upon row upon row of men who just d-d-don't understand.  

--claustrophobia.

I don't understand.  Do you?  Do you know what these scars symbolize?  Do you know what they mean?  Michelangelo got to paint his chapel with praise.  Solomon got to build his temple.  I don't.  I don'tdon'tdon'tdon't don't understand these scars.

Andandand I never told you this,
but I'm living in your coffee can.

Your tongue can weave webs across and around and over and over and over and sometimes I believe they're made of silk and that Diana was an infidel because of course pearls are made of saliva.  (It's then that I wish I had eight legs so maybe I wouldn't get tangled up.)  But sometimes they feel like fishing line and I forget how to breathe and I-I-I-I'm drowning in holy water because your Bible--your Bible makes garbage feel like home.

B-b-but I'm living in your coffee can.
There are no Bibles here.