Oh, for the sea
ever weeping for the darkness.
Beneath its taunting skies so scarlet
let the blame lie with the dead.

Let it lay there, let it fester
not a soul would dare refuse
not a soul would lift his head.

The blood drips from their fingernails

Not an innocent remains.

It's so hard to be what our parents want.

I can't stay.
To recite these prayers
to wonder why
to smile and support
while a word tempts me
worries me
controls me
behind this locked door.

And they'll never even know.

I am their "last hope"
molded in empty promises
broken from the moment my feet met concrete.

Even now, they pretend
over and over—
just a girl, just a grade, just a drink, just a word.
They see the boy
the boy playing Christian
and they smile.

Can they be so blind?
He is the fruit of endless correction,
the consequence of imitation,
a complete absence of true desire—
a mere service for them above all.

But to stay
to let them open these doors and try to love a prodigal who can't change...

Impossible.

Dear God, may they never find me out.

There's a certain moment when you have to cry.
A certain word, a certain tone, a certain *******
who can't wait to say how everything has gone to hell
whispers in your fragile ears
and then it's over.

You could shrug, you could laugh
rubbing those tell-tale torrents away
claiming allergies or dry contacts
and you'll know, they'll know
and pretend together.

You could try cowardice and run
finding safe haven in fuzzy socks and tired pillows.
But what you won't do is two-fold:
There is no holding back a broken dam
nor is there drowning its heedless audience.

But today it's me
not you
and I need your half-hearted hugs
your awkward comforts.
Anything, really.

I don't care if you suffocate.

I won't tell you particulars
you won't give me advice
and that way
we'll never disappoint the other.

No waterfalls
just a pond
the perfect inaction
of soul and body.

Her smile, so weary—
So weary of a word.
Waiting for a king
To make her less absurd.

And there, still—
There still she stands.
Still waiting

Waiting

To abandon or destroy
As he enters softly
To wake her from a choice.

put a bullet in my brain
for a change
the little earthquakes
all we need for the meltdown
spilling guilty

those of Them
the creatures begging you to believe
leave all but us asleep
the chosen

So to the ground we go.
But with fingers digging deep
and heads downcast
the world will never lack for martyrs.

Open your eyes

stretch these threads too tender

stop the sunlight

start again.

Share with me
your words

Make me know the face
The gaping hands
the sunkissed skin
The unwashed hair
the broken feet

Though not enough
(my will still evident)
There is another way-
Make me Thomas
and ask but thrice
That I may explain a doubt yet compromised:

That a fancy took a man
To pardon villains and condemn the saved

Adopting eleven (add a twelfth for foster care)
then spurning more
First the rich, then his junkies
And any prone to bore

He demanded death to dare refrain
Not from himself, but from the dead
To leave the weary to his hands
and the broken to his feet.

And the rest is simply religion.

So I must question (my doubt detailed)
That such a man as this
could praise your name
and call you Father.

That he would tread Calvary alone
To claim you goodness, kindness, self-control
To be the scapegoat for your sins
To be the price upon your head
and die
and live again.

And still, you let the world devour itself to darkness.
And still, you suffocate this faith.

This mustard seed.

So I bargain this:
Let also the diffident move mountains
Let also the lost find shelter
Let also the dead have hope
As once was promised.

And then

only then
will I call upon Your name

and wait.

When I open my eyes
I know he’s gone.
It’s desert ground I’m standing on.

But only the wind may say
“Lord, you spoke I this way”
As for the rest, well
We have our narcissistic prayers.

Don’t worry, girl
Just when we think it's good-bye
He comes back for a little dusting.