"it's ok"
i whisper to my arm
with the new scar
waiting to dry
"it's ok"
i whisper to my cheeks
with the salty tears
waiting to dry
"it's ok"
i say to the moon
without a face
waiting to die
"it's ok"
i whisper myself
with the cuts
waiting to die

bloodstains are pretty
like flowers for people who are sad
or stars for people who are too in love
or little redheaded girls
who are too afraid

side by side boxes
with little bleeding words
my blood smeared on one
the other yet to be graced
tonight is a good night
for him to be
baptized
i wish it wasn't in my
blood
with this
knife

i didn't forget that i was hurtable
i just forgot that you were capable
now i am in trouble

i wonder if i could slip through one of the cuts on my arm
through that long, narrow red slit
inbetween its folds
and be somewhere else
where pain flows fast and sure
but away

i never felt like the world was small enough
or vulnerable enough
or alone enough
to reach out and pluck from its holder
like an ill-fitted candlestick
but now that God has become a wooden statue
now that God no longer seems to breathe
or even be there
at all
the world is something that i see as
contained
crowded
dull tasting
like soda that has gone flat
and without
resolve.

i could pick up the world now, hold it in my hand
look at it
laugh at the small people
take a bite out of it
like an apple;
the world doesn't frighten me.
doesn't inspire me.
doesn't hold me.
doesn't care about me.
the world is

empty

it doesn't make me feel better.
it makes me feel like throwing up afterwards
someday i will get away from it