Life is a record scratch
a record scratch
a record scratch
a record scratch
a record scratch
a record scratch
Until the needle is lifted
and moved somewhere new

Last night I read a poem about God, and
it sounded so good I almost believed it.
God, hands out the window and hair blowing,
God, smoking a cigarette in a passenger's seat.
Even when you humanize all of your fears,
You can still
Spit them out in the middle.
God, moving her lips with the music and the hot sun,
God, breaking the law with that look.
God, being small enough to cower over and close
Enough to stare in the face,
Where do you take someone like that when they ask?
All the way, I suppose.
The seat next to me is godless, and I almost believed it.
I imagine someone being strong enough to
Cleanse me just by looking at me,
I imagine holding onto something that feels holy and
Not having to deal with burnt palms.
If I could take God anywhere, I would take her to
My grandfathers grave. I would take her to my
Best friends grave, I would take her to the site of
My life changing and,
I would watch her chain smoke cigarettes and cough it all out.
God, with her sharp teeth and quiet tongue and
God, with her hair pulled back and her gaze removed.
If God was in my passenger seat, I would take her to
All of my hurt and ask her to pick it up.
I would ask her to take it all back,
And she would laugh.
God, that laugh.

I begged you to come in
to read me like a book
to feel the touch of my skin
to taste the promises on my lips
and whisper them back to me.

You did.
and more.

You cut me open.
Did everything I asked of you.
Read the pumping blood in heart
like the code of my DNA.
Looked to the blue and red twisting of my veins
traveled those lines to find me
like following a road map to the place
Where you could burrow deep down into my mind. My heart.

And keep that space.

I branded your name there.
The image of you.
Your back.
The outline of your shoulder blades through your t-shirt.
The way you look with your eyes closed.
Like you're trying to shut out the world.

and me.

Wishing I could be a part of it.

Wishing I could take up the space in you that you took in me.

Wishing you counted on me
like I counted your heartbeats as you slept.

That our hearts molded together like I so dearly believe they should.
That those words I wrote on that empty
Lined page

That they were wrong.

He doesn't love me.

I don't know what I did.

I asked you to cut me open.

Now I'm trying not to bleed out.

We cannot write silence.
The beats.
The pause.
The breath.
The way it aches
and persists

and begs that,

if only for a moment,

our consciousness is only a whisper.
our bodies,
our lips,
the air that passes through falling chests
and stillness.

A melody of emotion.
Sleeping in the quiet of a heartbeat skipped
a word lost to the wind.

The wickedness of reticence
Encapsulated in air and time.

The moment stretched too long.
Hesitation perpetuated in the grip of fingernails
pressed into palms.

We cannot write silence,
but we can try.

to find a way to immortalize emotion
to create space
in the ceaseless drone of words that speak and spin.

I cannot write silence. But I can write
tears and years
and the burn of long-stretched lies.

I can write goodbyes and hellos
And dozen ways to say
I love to hate you
Or
I hate to love you
and sometimes
I cannot tell the difference.
Silence.
The space I have upheld for myself.

I love to hate you
Heart.

I hate to love you too.

I cannot write silence.
But I know it.
and I have held it in my hand.