The illusion of control
ripples in front of my reflection.
The water reflects the state of the soul:
Shifting and changing
with a mere drop
causing faces
to distort.

There is a comfort in knowing
that the waters will calm
once more.

I have seen the devil
with her sharp smile
and eyes that pierced
the milky way.

Her teeth ached for my skin
and I became religious:

Not out of a need for a God to save me,
but for a need for something holy
to exist.

Mark me with the sin of desire
my skin is tainted flesh.
Communion wine spilled,
on the bride's wedding dress.
And when all is said and done,
I do's, blessings, and Amens,
They will consummate that marriage,
and live in the sin of regret.

God is 1000 pieces of shattered glass
begging to be put together,
inside you see your reflection
and wonder why is God's so much better.

Death has been unkind
in his murky, flowy form,

teasing me endlessly
and his laughter, I can't ignore.

Devil's roll the dice,
playing a card game meant for three
I sit a cross from them
playing cards, idly.

When asked why I lay in Hell,
I pause and stare at thee,
and ask you back
"Where else can I lie?
trying to imbibe,
the devil's game
is where I want to be."

There are 1,000 sorrows
between the front gate
and the back door.

They each have a name,
the same way
each fiber of a carpet
and each grain in wood
have a purpose.

I introduce myself to them
and introduce them
to their matching
1,000 joys

and watch
as the world
is born

The shadows on my walls at night
with their inky flowy forms
create words from lack of light
and their presence, I do mourn.

For the sun is an ugly thing
when you are a shadow, to be scorned.
My window filled with magic
the shadows; nevermore

I look at her
and see
the beginnings of
myself,
and is that not something
worth celebrating?

Bathe me in the sin
of communion wine on a Wednesday
and break the holy bread,
leave its crumbs on the floor.

I wipe my face
with grubby hands
and pretend it is you
who is caring for me.

But if there is no God,
who will I be angry at?

When I see God creating life,
I watch as his hands pause
over sculpting your body.

As he takes a moment
to smile slyly at himself
and take pride
in his most beautiful creation.

I fully believe in the butterfly effect.
Because when I see you,
I know somewhere else in the world,
the universe must balance out
your lovliness.

When you laugh,
I feel the breeze blow on a spring feild
and see a child
seeing the sunset for the first time.

When you smile,
Orange trees bloom
with white colored flowers
and a scent so sweet
the bees cannot resist it.

And when you look at me
with the face of an angel
and the emotion of a God,
I cannot help but see
your beauty
in everything.

And when you slip right through my fingers
and crash onto the floor,
a thousand scattered eyelashes
stare back at me.
I will stare at my hands
and blame them,
not you.

And I'll break a glass
just to prove
you could've
slipped right through
my hands.

The cold air hits my lungs,
as the animal in my body
takes ragged breaths
exhaling
vapor and fear
inhaling
a familiar stench.

The night smells like metal,
with the sun now eroding
the starry sky.

There is no time to think of how I got here.
A corroding metal bar swinging in the air
just missing
my head.

20 years and a Bottle,
not much has changed
between the mother
rubbing whiskey on her
infant's gums
and the girl that stands tall now
drinking it from a cup.

You baptized me
in the shadow of the sun,
the water made
from Angel's weeping.

The church bells ring
with the Devil's laughter
as they blind themselves
and call me
God.

By the window she wavers,
elegance and grace
unfolding from the movements of her gloved hands.

Animated red lips
move with skill
as she tells a tale
that would make sailors blush.

Eye's flashing and dashing
like the lighthouse
in the middle of a storm.

A whirlwind of blonde hair
who had fought with the wind
sits awry on her head.

I watch as her story unravels,
and the air around her buzzes
with her electric voice.

I make the mistake
of escaping with her wallet,
and am left to wonder,
how her story ends.

A woman and a knife:
The blade glistens,
ever sharply
in the rain that is pouring from heaven.

Her black hair sticks smartly
to the sides of a sharp face.
I trace my gaze
over a smart mouth
with red lips.

But her dark eyes
never falter with such desire.
Her cold stare ever fixated
on the knife's destination:

My chest.

I have sat in this one spot
for so long
I have grown roots deep in the ground here.

"Tell me, is it better to rip myself out
yet leave a piece of me
buried

Or is it better to stay,
and grow leaves of old age
in the same dirt
I was born in?"

I pray at night to the God who planted me
and all I hear back
is the wind.

The ground is
littered with orange peels
and the stain of citrus
is in the air.

Tender and juicy is the love,
I share my slices with you

Here I lay
at morrow's feet,
begging for yesterday's grace
to fill me once more,
so I may face the dawn.

I want religion wrapped in flesh.

I taste communion wine
and holy bread
when I kiss her.

I watch her bathe in holy water,
as the smell of frankincense and purity
wafts in the steam.

I see her crown
placed gently on the sink,
awaiting the return
of the one true queen.

I hear hymns
when she asks for a towel.

I think to myself
that she is God,
and keeps this from me
like a coy secret
only she can know.

She is religion wrapped in flesh.

I cup you in my hands
and imagine
that the size of your heart
is that of a fingernail;

Sometimes I worry
my love for you is so great
that it will crush you.

I break dawn
with a sledgehammer,
splintering the night
and scattering the stars,

and with hands made of stains,
I spend my days
piecing it back together.

The scent of autumn
was woven between
strands of her hair.

I hide myself under the shadow
of the lamp post I call home.
The sharp lines of light
just outside my reach,
ever flickering
in front of me.

Even the end of my cigarette,
burning ash warmth on cold lips,
snuffs out
just before the burning tobacco
reaches the darkness edge.

She smells like summer rain
and wet hair.
Like the forest after a storm
drowning in the sky's blessings.
She walks like chaos,
a cacophony of arms and legs
that jolt in the direction of travel.
She stands tall, with dark undereyes
and a dress that stops flowing
around her waist
but does not end
until **** near
her feet.
She stalks the night like a pedator and prey
all in one.

And she looks at me.

I woke up
To the thirst
Of moonlight.

Begging her essence

To quench my desires.

I am rotting
and poetry falls from my hands
like leaves
from a hollow tree.

They sing church hymns
until they froth at the mouth
and bleed at the ear
when will they learn
that God is a state of mind
and not a person.

She tastes like honey
and Autumn leaves,
leaving me with fuller
with each breath she gives.

I am a dog that laps up
God's tears.

Divine beings spill their secrets to me
and I sit
like a good girl
on their kitchen floor,
listening,
but never speaking
the same language.

An exhale stains the sky
as ash and ambiance
fall from her lips.

She is permeating the night air
with the aroma of tobacco
and a great story to tell.

The sky rips through itself with ease.
Self-destruction is an art form when
you are nothing but constellations and wonder.

Black holes tear
through the fabric of the universe
and celestial hands reach through them,
scratching at God's flesh.

Stellar voices echo
through these pits of imbibe
asking it's creator
one question:
"why?"

Fistfuls of stars thrown into
the jarring teeth of inferno;
a flame that feuls more fire.

Planets are crushed
under gravity's legs,
and, like a child unsatisfied with a drawing,
the space between galaxies
crumples like paper.

Tired of being a feast for human eyes,
and being

Poked, Proded, and Penetrated by People

God's first and best creation
consumes itself whole
to satisfy
the hunger.

The sky is drowning
in itself.

Ripping itself apart
through black holes
and hoping that eating itself

will keep it full.

***** of feather
fill the air,
flutter and flap,
their wings tear
the atmosphere
with expertise.
Two little birds:
Plum and Bean.

I pray that the ghosts
that haunt my bones
and the demons
that line my skin
know what they are doing
because I don't.

I feel flesh on fire
light my skin
and name me pleasure.

All hands
and waist
and thighs
and bare.

Lips not only inhaling
what the other exhales.

I still trace my hands on my collarbone
the way you did that night.

I named my pleasure after you.

The ocean's foam
consumes me whole
as I am tossed
back into the rapids.

I drip into the palm of your hands
and make my home in the lines,
filling every crevice with myself
so I may always be by your side.

If you had blinked you would have missed her.
A figure made of mist,
drifting just above the water
dripping with light
and drooping with melancholy.

She had moonlit skin,
and I watched as beads of the heavens
slid down her body,
crystalized,
and dropped
into the pond below her.

I catch her eyes in surprise,
filled with wonder and stars
as she disperses across the water.

I pick up the stone left behind
and like a fool
I name it:
Moonstone.

The reflection of the moon sits
in the middle of a pond.

My favorite thing to do as a kid was to play god.
I sat near the water with swaying willows
and the sharp scent of the night air
and dipped my legs into the sky,
coating myself with what I believed
to be heaven:
the stars and the
inky blackness below me.

Ripples in this water
were simple evidence
of my eternal and formidable
power.
Who else could cause waves in the sky
but God?

But no matter how hard I tried
the moon evaded me,
and I pretended we were friends
and this distance was nothing more
but physical space between us.

I could keep playing God,
and she could still have her space.  

I may have been baptized with the sky
and gone home
dripping with constellations,
but always wondered,
maybe all I had
was the space between
me
and
the moon.

I knew I was not worthy of her anointment,
but I pray whatever argument we had gotten into
would one day be resolved.

I no longer play God

But all I have now
is still the space
between
me
and
the moon.

And I wonder if I would have become God
if we had just
made up.

Often deserved,
yet seldomly effective.

I think divorce papers taste like the ash of a ciggratte falling from his lips when he told her the news.

Like whiskey burning firey hot as it slides down the back of your throat,

with bitter sweet tears pooling in with umami ink, the saltiness hitting the tongue like the papers to the floor, a weeping widow who does not suffer from a death but an absence.

I think divorce papers cut up throats like the edge of a chip, swallowing the news over and over again does not seem to make it go down any easier.

I think divorce papers digest like a cheap meal, the kind that you know will give you trouble, but also know is better for you in the end.

For late night adventures in woods
and abandoned buildings.

For strangers that sneak glances at you
between bookshelves and street corners,
and always manage to disappear when you no longer need them.

For candlewax and the flame that flickers.
For the light of the moon on paths untamed.
And for the snowfall that covers my tracks.

There is so much beauty in the wonder that you bring.

She was born in the back alleys of bones
left as scrap thrown to the dogs
by men who chewed her raw
and picked their teeth
with the edge of her.

When sprouts formed,
and skin and flesh blanketed her existence,
and blood dripped into her veins
from body bags in dumpsters:
she began to grow anger,
and brain,
and heart,
and eyes,
and fists.

So she may see the men her tossed her,
and attain her vengeance.

I sit at the edge of the world,
as water falls from the ocean
into the abyss that is the sky
and floats past the stars.

Where I cling to handfuls of dirt
and grass, and the rocks that cling too,
so I do not fly up
and drown in the universe above
and below me.