I crept in like I was praying for God to forgive my sins.

Maybe he could wash away this weight in my chest,

the hurt in my heart.

Starting with the tips of my toes,

creeping up my ankles and shins,

washing over my knees and rising over my thighs,

touching my groin.

Maybe God can cleanse this away.

I sit back, emerged in this water

and envision red taking over God’s holy water.

Blood and flesh merging with the divine, darkening that which is clean.

Humanizing God,

washing away filth,

letting it all become one,

as is the universe,
As am I.

Loss is a funny thing. Not in the laughing sort of way. In the ironic sort of way. When you want to let the thing go, it seems to sew itself to your insides, whispering crude nothings, never losing its voice (how does it do that?) When you want to hold onto the thing, it turns to mercury, slipping quickly through cracks and holes, silently sneaking away. 

I’m getting tired of carrying the evil weight of nagging memories of assholes. I wish memories of love could come lighten the load, but they flew away in the breeze long ago.

Knot in love with me anymore.

Lumps.
I’ve got lumps in my throat, chest, stomach, heart.
Heart lumps.

So when eyes roll over me, they jerk and stutter.
There must be a neon sign, “bumps ahead,” so they take the detour.
When my mouth opens, the words quickly retract,
The throat lumps stopping them from moving forward.
Foot lumps stopping me from moving forward.
Heart lumps stopping my anxiety from dissolving.
Chest lumps stopping my breathing.

But I keep them.
These lumps latch onto my body-
They own me. I need them.
It’s a sick disaster and I want your eyes to turn away.
Sickeningly, I want your heart to join them,
Hopelessly attached to me.

You didn’t drink my poison.
You didn’t buy stock in lumps.
You didn’t stay here with me.

I’m left with this festering, infected wound
I’d carved it out just for you to latch on, but the implant didn’t take.
And now the lumps seem…
gaudy.
immature.
disgusting.
unnecessary.
I want to rip them off, one-by-one
until they’re all septic wounds, laid bare and exposed.

If you’re not one of them, I don’t want any of them.
If you’re not here, I want to leave.
If you’re not listening, I won’t speak.

I want to rip my lumps apart and let you love my wounds.
Like I should have the first time.
Like I should have loved yours.

“Maybe it meant something. Maybe not, in the long run, but no explanation, no mix of words or music or memories can touch that sense of knowing that you were there and alive in that corner of time and the world. Whatever it meant.”
– Hunter S. Thompson

Holiday blues, I know why you’re here.

I really wanted to love him with all the love I had in my heart. I wanted to offer it on a silver platter. And I did. 

But I found out that when I gave it all away to love, I no longer had a foundation to stand on. No roots to ground me. No space to settle on. No blankets to curl up with for safety. There’s not enough ME to give away any love. I need every bit I have just to keep breathing. 

I still really want to love him, but not even I want the settle for this pile of rubble.

I’m not okay but that’s okay

When I was 14, God walked out on me.
I was left alone with the devil.
He whispered evil things in my ears,
And breathed in visions of death and sadness.
I’ve never been the same.

Satan keeps quiet when I’m busy.
Focused on growth, my mind is hushed.
But the moment the gate loosens,
Flood waters push it aside and the devil comes back. 

He says, “I’ve missed cradling up in your chest, my dear.”

I tell him, “There’s no space for you here.”

He says, “But you carved out a hole for me. I know you’ve missed our chats.”

And as I try to say no, he cracks open two bottles and shoves one into my hand.

I hang my head. I drink it.
Here he is again.
Here’s rock bottom again.
I’ll beg for some hope, for reprieve from this pain.

But he won’t leave until I’ve fought all his demons away first.
They’re his protectors, shielding him from me, feeding off my heartbreak.

Each one holds a piece of me I’d long ago tried to forget.
Now I’ll have to remember again.
I’ll dig their nails out of my parts and mend the tears with kisses.
I’ll hold a bittersweet ceremony to mourn the death of the parts that don’t survive.

In the end, the devil will surrender.
No longer protected by his minions, he’ll leave the dark cavern of self-loathing I’d created to house him.
I will rebuild, filling all the dark spaces with gold.
And always remember the cracks make me more beautiful.