Would you still love me if the night spoke my sin,

if the ash of my mistake clung to our bodies,

if the wind carried whispers of my guilt

and our skin bore the scent of shattered stars—

would your hands still gather me from the void?

“God, can you hear me?”
Such a childish plea.
“But God I’m your child, what did you expect to see”
Born unto demons, a demon you’ll be.

Grief lingers like a friend in the doorway, unable to say goodnight. So now I’m in a diner at 2 a.m., the coffee is getting cold
For the sake of conversations I had long ago.

In eleventh grade, I learned the word
grotesque.  
It seemed to me that it was tied to human  
nature.  
All the lines we try to hide growing  
thicker.  

We are monsters, the animals to  
fear.  
Rabbits don’t need Botox, yet we rip off their
heads.  
A bit rude when you think about it;
unnecessary.  

I want to be old and like a rabbit when I  
die.  
Shriveled and happy and kind like a  
baby.  
One or the other: bunny or child it’s up to
me.