my mother's love is real
it is as real as her hatred
and as i grow there is
one thing i know is true

i will always cause her pain

profound lonely
break the light of
little girls

she strums the threads
hears the sound of red
nicks the fingers

an era discolored by a bruise
contusion of the palms
from knuckle-less knocking


can't see
so keep the moon glowing

jesus wept

god is not great or
majestic or kind
it's sunday and i'm
starved at the pews

preacher preaching
snatch'd the souls by their
limp necks, found them
discarded and
drunk at a roadside--he
stitched them with strings to
hang off god's fingertips like
they had jumped off a cliff

suicide at 6am
rubbed the rosary against
the thin of shameful skin
slit the chapter and verse
on unholy wrists

jesus wept
asked judas to
collect the tears

5-21::9-1

do you smell the
scorching of the gash
cigarette stain shaped the cuts
--leaves jagged burns
along the edges of your mouth
holes
just large enough for
your soul to leak and
escape the capsule of your
blanket skin


you are empty again

are you crying?

stop


cauterize + clean
cavity and crater of
a 12 year old pain

all beauty breaks your heart

in like lavender

chin up, child
don't hold your breath
you are allowed to
seize the air
you are allowed to
carve a place in
the wind

do not hush your heart
let it shout, sing
let it bellow glories
let it weep your grief

create yourself
from the void
speak your existence
until you emerge
from the nothing of
a heavy darkness
until the light lifts
from the tired of
shattered men and
hoarse mothers

collect the bones
from the grave of
your youth
artifacts left behind
as dust to settle

gather the wayward voices
wailing at the funeral
of your suicide
tell them
you are alive

resurrect just to
break at the teeth
again
just to
wither at the wrists
again

shout your salvation to heal, only
to bruise and cripple

is it my fault i doubt?