stoic, solid
stolid and bolder
made colder the soldier-
death's hand on his shoulder
and eyes the color
of green flies.

r ~ 8/19/14

The color of his eyes after one too many drinks.
The color of the light he ran because he "couldn't think."
The color of his face whenever I did something wrong.
The color of love although for me that color's gone.
The color of the lipstick she left there on his cheek.
The color of the underwear found in his car that week.
The color of the Valentine he gave to me that year.
The color that he glowed when he watched me drown in tears.
The color of the mark that slap left on his face.
The color of the blood in his mouth that he could taste.
The color of that power button that turned me on and off.
The color of the germs in that cheating cough.
The color of the gas can used to drench his floors.
The color of the lighter that helped those bright flames soar.
The color of the truck that intended to save the day.
Red's the color of the ashes when you threw it all away.

I still dream about you.
It's a place we still talk and know one another.
A place where your hand still finds the small of my back,
even in subtle conversation.
I haven't forgotten the depth of your heart or the beauty of your soul.
Though I'm quite certain you'd never find yourself here,
it's still as if you never left.

I was raised Catholic
In a world of Eucharist
And the Father, Son and the Holy Spirit.
Baptized before I could remember
Given a white dress in the second grade
To receive a piece of a man I didn’t understand.
Sunday school used to give me headaches
Too stressed to admit I didn’t believe
Too scared to see through the lies.
The day I walked out forever
I was told my birth control was abortion.
A man told a room full of fourteen year olds
That his girlfriend killed their unborn child.
As if he had the right to force a woman
To put her body through something
She couldn’t handle.
Religion has become less about love
And more about guilt.
Children are hiding parts of themselves
Because people tell them they are sins.
Priests speak with razors that cut
And we are the ones left bleeding
I see God’s light as a flashlight
As priests and preachers torture out my sins
I may not believe in God
But I believe in people
And I need to know if
Religion will ever be a good thing.
-JE