Grace between Cigarettes and Broken Hands (Poem)

Jesus Christ was friends with addicts
And Jesus Christ was friends with whores
So it makes sense that Jesus Christ is friends with me
My momma did meth and whored herself out for such and my dad drank himself silly
I crave things I’ve never touched
I’ve dreamed of taking adderall when it’s never passed my lips
I crave a cigarette between my teeth every time someone dies
I sigh out a man’s name and mistake it for love
Jesus Christ didn’t bat an eye at my daddy's broken teeth
Or my momma's trembling hands
He didn’t mind my grandaddies' broken knuckles from drunken tussles
Or my grandmother’s brokenhearted codependent tendencies
He didn’t shatter at the thought of holding me close
He carried all of it up to that cross at Calvary
How I carry meanness when grief settles on my shoulders
He carried it like a drunk grips the bottle
Like a whore carries her name and head
Jesus Christ makes himself at home in my heart
Kicks his feet up on the old milk crate of regret
I ask, “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”
I shove the empty beer cans and cigarette butts under my seat
He shakes his head, “No place I’d rather be.”
He heard my sorry excuse for a prayer
And passed me a cup of peace
I held it in my hands
Dry, clumsy, and full of need
Like it was something holy
It was
He is.