You see god in bathroom stalls,
and many may call that grotesque,
but only you can see the metaphors
the walls posses. You bleed emotions
in the way you make your bed.
And you keep old lovers whispers in
your garden shed. You bleed paper
cuts instead of stubbed toes, and your
teeth are burnt from words unsaid instead of cigarettes. You probably take scolding hot showers instead of cold, because you already know what it's like to be frozen -
and all you want is to feel pain again.
But not the kind you spend sleepless
nights perfecting onto whiskey
stained napkins, because the girl across
the bar breathes similes. But rather
the kind that melt the blisters from
your knuckles, and remind you that you are decaying. It's okay that you
break your fingers instead of praying.
It's okay to see the fairytales between the tiles, and it's okay that you compare
rotting fruit to your own soul,
or a nine inch wide black hole.
It's okay that you see grace inside of illness,
and sonnets inside of fear. Because
you are a writer, and you have
already won.