Your heart is a choir that doesn’t wish
to sing anymore, your hands are done
housing mistakes in the tons and your
feet are tarred from all the sitting you’ve
been doing. There are dreams in you that
feel like nightmares when you’re wide
awake and there are reminiscences of
your old self that aren’t as dead as you.
You’ve reach that point of no return, the
very end of a road that was never there
to begin with and your prayers aren’t
floating as gracefully as they did when
you didn’t believe. You enjoy the darkness,
it’s soothing, it’s the one place where your
being can be innocently undone and
unwrapped for the angels to feast upon.
You’ll rage away at the very top of your
lungs and the world might not hear you,
and the only reason they won’t is because
you don’t matter. So stay inside me,
continue with the internal assault and
a healthy garden might just bloom and
we’ll nurse it until it takes its last breath
inside of you. Or maybe it’ll grow, only to
find itself tossed outside this cold haven
and left out to actually live. Maybe we’ll
watch it materialize into something
other than you and we’ll name it hope,
what you were before. I’m a being made
up of mistakes, typos, unsaid cries
to the moon with vessels drenched
in whiskey and tea. I’m everything right
in this wrong world and I ask that you
crucify me sideways to ensure that I
bleed slowly so I can feel myself
perish before you do without me. You
never deserved me, yet here we are. My
cracked walls and tumbling edges housing
you in capacity. I hope you remember me,
always.