When you're tucked into the corner of your bed kissing a girl, consider blasphemy.

When you're picking flowers and spinning your lover in the grove, consider blasphemy.

When your mother finds out and you are forced to leave her, consider blasphemy.

When you have healed from your sins, come to the church and consider blasphemy.

When you turn back to your sins, leave the church and consider blasphemy.

When you get married to your wife and commit yourself to the sin, consider blasphemy.

When you are old and on your deathbed, please, for the love of God, reconsider blasphemy.

When you stop your breathing and reunite with your lover for eternity, disconsider blasphemy.

I’m not sure when you became the only thing I could write about.
A stranger who no longer knows
who I am.
I’m tired of letting the ghost of you move my pen and beckon my tears.
I want to slip you into every poem I write
but I know it’ll only leave me stuck
with words I can no longer read

sometimes, i get so tangled in my comforter and the darkness it brings that it is all i become.
i feel stuck underneath, taking only the shape of the crumbled fabric.
i’m drowning in cloth.
i forget i exist outside of my bed, that a version of me once got up and didn’t fear the loss of contact.
i forget that i am not one with the sheets, that i am something outside of my bed.