your skin is the novel I never found the time to write
the kind to reside beside my bed
but every chapter is a break up letter to myself
and I keep passing them off as bed time stories - hiding them beneath your pillow in crumpled ***** of love notes
and god's word
you say you're not a prophet
but I swear you're the reason people still find comfort in the afterlife
and I stopped going to church after daddy left

I painted pictures of your chest
in every alter that would let me
but you're "not quite sure" how you feel about heresy
now you're sounding much like the pastor did on christmas,
with his drone of sinful scrutiny
and a pocket full of choir boys
you are the book in every top draw of every hotel ever slept in,
you are the force that brings babylon to its knees,
the hands that drowned the sea