Mull over the the words you let sneak out.
Discard the contents of your pockets.
Undress.
Stand clothed in your “slip ups” and “mudslides” and “losses of self”
since Heaven and Hell only take souls.
It’s your armor.
Firm,
relentless,
stubborn.
Oh, father.
Does it hurt?
Does my weight bring you down?
You made me your armor and now I can’t protect you.
I fell so far from your tree.
Time is the enemy.
The apple, descending in slow motion,
tears into the ground,
shredding earth,
with no deadline.