I still remember the day he convinced me with his gospel, this Christ, when he vowed to show me more love than that with which he “so-loved” the world. He said there were many mansions in his father’s house.
I had gods before he came, but he killed them with his charm, this Saviour that washed away my single-sin. We swore an oath from one book, that holy hook that bound a gold knot around my finger. This we did before a sacred altar whose sacrifices are not blood of bulls, but the sweat of men.
I gave him all my love, but he wanted me to give my life to him. He took me to heaven. Heaven, they say, is a place of bliss; a place with gold-paved streets and rooms filled with children singing out their father’s praise. Heaven is paradise!
Many told me that perhaps, I was the luckiest of womankind to have been chosen a bride of The Lord. The minds of these ones are still fueled by traditional firewood, the flames of which kindle my love. These fires kept me warm when the divans of heaven were made cold by the sweat of mistresses; these fires killed the worms of my intestine when I fasted for four tea-days and nights, yet my saviour fed five thousand strangers with fish and bread.
With this love I bore his stripes a-cross my skin. Why should I go back to the sinful, single-world, when maidens dream to be tied to heaven’s knot?
The pains of love chocked me until I could bear them no more, lest I journey to the valley of the shadow of death. So I packed up my suitcase, placed his ring on the bed, and took a taxi back to the sinful world, free!
(This is a flash fiction rendering of my poem Heaven. Marital abuse is a bane. Walk away when you can.)