vatican { district 9 } cb3

An ocean jumper -- I don't know what to believe. 

Broken book spines and my brother digging through old rotting things; I've always been gullible. Believing ripred keeps us safe, my sister held my hand as a child but for years I thought she and I weren't blood - I blame Andorra. He flicked my nose and told me I was adopted and even being twins I believed it, fuckin- 

I'm not the smartest. 

Read all I want things don't stick up there past fantasy worlds and excalilburs, tearing pages out and gluing to dry walls -- Andorra doesn't touch them and I'm grateful. A book sits in an old chest, sweat stains and shaky hands, my brother didn't realize when he dug it up. Just another dusty old textbook, throwing it at me when he got home lazily hard enough for the title to rip off; an armored suit of naivety on my back.  

Apparently a bible can get you killed. 

At this point I had read every page, every goddamn gold text of an old idea and didn't have the courage to throw it away. Is it courage or cowardice to keep it, I can't tell, I can't answer many of these questions, but they just keep popping up. How much is there? A dead culture, I clutch the bible under my jacket and hide it in my room -- how much is out there waiting for somebody to find it?

Would I even be able to understand.

I'm gullible enough to think so.