when the time comes
i want to go
on a shabbat
not that i think itll wash me clean
but maybe
maybe itll be a sign
like the moon thats only whole once a month
from a crescent
only counted in its absence
ive failed more times than i could count
and its not so much regret
but more like
this gap
the ache
that sits between me
and whatever version of myself
i think i couldve been
i rebel
and i own it
but ownership dont change much
except maybe
the way the sins feel a little less
like thieves in the night
and a little more
like an old coat thats finally broken in
but still too heavy
to wear
everywhere
i keep climbing
this mountain i cant summit
and when the view is nothing but
rock and fog
i just pray
that the Fortress
hears me
that He sees me
even if the climb never ends
hoping its not about the peak
maybe its about the way
i learn to breathe
with the distance between
what i am
and what i could have been
so if i go
on a shabbat
it wont be a victory
but a note to myself
that i made it as far as i could
on legs too tired to keep walking
and maybe
just maybe
thats enough

i watch myself on the grainy reel
the boy already drowning in the first act
his fists raw against the wall of some impossible climb
every cut of the film a scar that never closed
yet i know the ending already
the champion survives
because i am here watching
i see the paths i never could explain to him
the false light leading into enemy hands
the friends who fall in slow motion
their mouths opening but never finishing the sentence
i want to shout into the screen
there is another way turn here do not trust them
but the projector runs on and my voice is swallowed
i took the harder road because it looked like fire
because pride is a cruel director
and i thought rebellion was the only language i spoke
and so the story kept breaking me into shape
until i stood at the summit with everything
and still felt the black hole circling
still felt that gravity of not enough
i wish i could reach back and stitch his wounds shut
wipe the sweat before it blinds him
but the truth is i would only ever be reaching for myself
the boy and the man and the ghost the same
all of us turning in the same orbit
and i know now
i was sculpting this image with my own hands
chiseling toward my own ruin or redemption
alone in the light of my own making

i wake under canvas that does not keep
the noise away
it breathes with the wind
but never quite with me
i have learned to hold still
when the seams shiver
to pretend this thin skin
is shelter enough
though i know it is not
houses built with straight lines
and sharper words
call themselves permanent
yet their floors tilt
their walls lean
truth there is poured shallow
and cracks before the paint dries
so i am here
exiled by honesty
rooted in a structure that folds with a sigh
every time the weight of the world
remembers me
they say
there is a city not made by hands
a place where stone does not betray
but that promise
is always tomorrow
always horizon
and today feels longer than it should
today
i am nothing but a tent collapsed
fabric heavy against my chest
ropes tangled like accusations
stakes loosened by invisible hands
and still i breathe
waiting
not for comfort
but for the wind to lift me
to show that even canvas
can rise

in the sleepless ache of the body
i hear the slow turning of a wheel
not outside but somewhere in the chest
grinding dust from its own cogs
it pulls the night through itself
like a thread catching on a burr
the colors move first
sharp red eclipsing the golds
each flare a mouth i cannot close
and it whispers
that there is nothing to win
by surrendering less
the air thickens with wanting
and my hands
learn the shape of holding nothing
still i keep them open
as if something warm might spill in
desire hunts me in my own skin
trained to recognize the footfall
the subtle heat of a pulse through fabric
and even when i chain the hound
it paces
snarling at the scent in the wind
demanding its pound of flesh
for the mercy of not running
i know the voice
it wears perfume and skin
it leans close enough to light my breath on fire
the air thickens with wanting
its weight settling into my hands
heavier this time
until they are no longer open
but curled
as if they have already taken
and i drink without swallowing
filling myself until the skin strains
until the wheel turns faster
until the hound
stops pacing
and begins to pull
each inhale tastes of her
as if the night has been poured
from the hollow of her throat
the scent of her hair
floods the hollow behind my teeth
and her laughter
slides along the bone of my jaw
like a hand in the dark
a shadow pressed against me
all warmth and no mercy
fingers ghosting the edge of a door
that should remain closed
but is already ajar
the air thickens again with wanting
until my thoughts no longer speak in words
but in the shape of her hips
the ghost of her breath against my throat
the hound no longer straining at the chain
but sitting still
waiting for the door to open
because it knows it will
and i know it will
and the wheel
keeps turning

i
have always been
too good
at sitting
theres a quiet
that grows teeth
if you let it sit too long
sometimes
i mistake memory
for softness
but it cuts
in the places
i try not to name
i forgot the name
of the bird
that used to sit
on the windowsill
in spring
the one with the chest
like a smudged flame
i think
about how
my mother used to hum
while drying her hands
and still
i wonder why
my hands wont stop shaking
why sleep comes
like an animal
i cant quite ****
i knew their names
before i forgot them
knew how to hold them
just right
until they broke open
& gave me
everything
& in this graveyard i keep
planting flowers
hoping one will bloom
into forgiveness
into a
commuted sentence
i deserve
the silence
i deserve
every name
they never called me again
& still
i dream of the bird
the one i cant name
perched on the edge
of something soft
not yet ruined
i watch it
with the patience of the ******
wonder if it sings
for the ones i couldnt love right
or if it sings
for me
some days
i want to believe
theres a version of me
that doesnt flinch
at her laughter
doesnt vanish
before the tea cools
but belief
has teeth too
& ive bled enough
for now

ive realized god has forgiven me
but i struggle to do the same
i reach for the wisdom of solomon
and end up grasping
his sin
my room is quiet
but my soul isnt
silence doesnt mean stillness
ive learned that the hard way
i anguish
what i am learning
to let go of
i am not held
in my own mercy
but i am
held
repentance
is not arrival
its
today
and today
i choose life
even if i whisper it
even if i dont
feel it
yet

i kept the door open
so the past could walk in and tell me again
what i already knew
that the wound was never meant to close
only deepen
with each morning i pretend not to remember
i made myself into a mask
wore it so long it grew nerves
bled when i smiled
and still i wandered
through rooms lit by other people's truths
waiting for someone
who could look straight through me
and not blink
wildness is a kind of prayer
i said mine with teeth
refused to kneel
refused to beg
and still
every silence was a confession
my heart is a ruin that echoes back
only what i refuse to forgive
i love my enemies because they leave me be
but myself
i sharpen against daily
and call it justice
God watches me watch myself
and says nothing
maybe that is the test
i ache
but quietly
i ache
but i smile
i ache
but i function
i ache
and no one claps
but that
is the performance
so no one mistakes it for weakness
the mirror wont meet my eyes
and i dont blame it
those eyes belong to the boy
who never got to look away
who first learned to lie
by telling the truth
too quietly
i am not hollow
i am not empty
i am too full
of everything i had no place to put
and that fullness
does not echo