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Kyle Summer Aug 2018
Drown me in holy water
since you call yourself a God,
kiss me back to life
to prove you’re not a fraud,

undress me from this white gown,
baptize me in your lies.
You taunt me with your words,
my unholy demise.

Let me worship at your temples
and sooth your aching head,
Whisk me off to heaven
where you promise we’ll be wed.

You have worms in your veins
and I feel it when they crawl,
I chained you upon the cross
in hopes you wouldn’t fall.

My false prophet, I loved you,
you resurrect me from the dead;
but I cannot give my life to you,
I worship myself instead.
A letter to the man who was my Jesus.
Kyle Summer Aug 2018
Four feet, impeding on the sun,
yet only two of them are mine.

Time is rugged against the grain
of questions falling on white sand.
How come no one consciously believes in
anything except fractured light and filtered water?
He walks on broken heels and birttle bones,
but somehow always steps in time.

My only memory of Jesus
is in the aftermath of a forest fire.
We danced throughout destruction,
and her hollow laughter brought the rain.
She was the beginning of the rapture,
sometimes I think of her and pray.

I got lost six years ago,
on the way to change my name.
I wonder, how could I go missing
if I never locked the door?
Did anything really happen,
or does nothing ever change?

Four feet, impeding on the sun,
yet none of them are mine.
Kyle Summer Jan 2018
I have no idea
who I am. My fingers bleed,
teach me to concede.
A haiku about dissociation
Kyle Summer Jan 2018
I feel like clouds

(with you)

for once,

(I am)

Kyle Summer Jan 2018
The first time you ugged me
I tried to trace the outline
of Orion
on your back.
But I messed up half way
and just left the sky black

When your mother asked me
if I believed in god,
I lied.

You are the best road map
I ever forgot to read.
For the love of my life, there are so many times when I should have given you more than I did, but you still stand by me anyways. Thank you.
Kyle Summer Jan 2018
I hope you like boys who look like girls,
because I like boys who look like you;
but I won't sell my soul for alcohol
even if you begged me to.
Kyle Summer Jan 2018
I have spent hours perfecting the words
to tell you I want to spend the next eighty years
with you
in a stupid white minivan
that's supposedly heading north;
but I can't read maps,
and you can't stand the sound
of the British woman on my GPS...

So we navigate by road signs
and sundials,
somehow we find out way back home.
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