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

i dont remember when the rules were written
only that they were written in my bones
etched there like commandments from a god i invented
to keep myself small enough
to fit inside the punishment
i have knelt to every cruelty
some with names i whispered like secrets
some with no names at all
just the echo of my voice
sharpened into command
i dont know how to stop
only how to split
to fracture like glass under holy pressure
to be the mouth that orders and the back that bends
to be the hand raised and the cheek turned
the lash and the mark it leaves
the yes and the why
the silence and the scream
i have been both judge and defendant
executioner and confessor
and still the verdict is always
not enough
never enough
never
i have worn shame and it mixes with my skin
called it modesty
called it devotion
called it what love must look like when it hurts just right
but God doesnt ask for blood the way i do
and i know that
i know it
and still i lay my faith beside my hunger
twisting like lovers caught in a mirror
my mouth half-prayer
half-demand
my hands clasped and trembling
with the weight of worship and war
i have made myself god because no one else would
and hated myself for daring
that is the sin i cannot name
but feel
like fire
just under the surface of my skin

the room does not speak
it doesnt need to
its silence folds me like linen
set aside for mourning
that never quite began
the ghosts are tired of me
or maybe i have stopped
feeding them
this is the dark that asks nothing
not the hunter’s dark
but the hush of snow before it lands
the pause before it knows it's falling
i sit here
shaped but unscripted
an hourglass with no hour
a form memory forgot to fill in
i am empty
yes
but without ache
just
space
what pours in
may be music
or mist
or the bones of a future i havent been asked to carry yet
i do not know what i am to be
but i am what is ready

i was born in the burn
1995 flame, a war within
ghosts pacing the halls before i ever knew
how to carry a name
or lie like a man
i learned young how to build a face
that people could love
so they would never look past it
that mask fit too well
i forgot what skin felt like
my fathers sins were seeds in my blood
planted in silence
harvested in screams behind walls
that cracked before i could fix them
i swore i wouldnt become him
i didnt
i became the fallout
theres a psalm in my right hand
a loaded habit in my left
and every prayer tastes like rust now
i say the right words sometimes
other times i just stare at the ceiling
and wait for the judgment
or the mercy
whichever lands first
i still see her, my friend
ten years gone and somehow
still closer than God some days
i carry her like a debt
that never stops charging interest
my faith is a battlefield
where angels bleed in silence
and demons grin in old familiar faces
mostly mine
twisted mines
i drop my values like broken weapons
pick them up again
pretend theyre clean
pretend im clean
but ive counted the weight of my deeds
on both sides of the scale
and even if it tips my way
i know thats not how grace works
thats just math
and math wont save me
ive stopped praying to be perfect
i just beg to be real
i still want to be holy
but God i dont know how
to stop being me long enough
to let You in
if theres mercy
if theres still blood on the altar for the hypocrite
if grace can bleed this deep
then let it bleed
ive traveled so far to be here again
maybe crawling back is the only kind of worship
ive ever truly known