i’m eight and pretending
heaven still exists and
refusing to think that
hell is being defined
right outside
my bedroom door
as a vase breaks
just like a marriage,
as a scream blooms
just like a bruise.

i am eighteen
and kneeling in the shrapnel
of too many shattered dreams
hands clasped and knee caps red,
just trying to convince myself
that god doesn’t have to be
someone else
that flowers never fly
but somehow, they still grow enough
to always try