Every time I turned my eyes up,
staring at the ceiling to force the tear drops back inside of me
with my hands clasped beneath my chin,
people might have thought that I was praying.

I’m not a religious person
but I think that in my moments of desperation
I’d pray to a ******* ceiling tile
if it would make me feel better.
I’m not that desperate yet,
but if the churning in my stomach
and the burning ache in my chest get any worse
I might just ******* do it.

I’d pray to the dead skies if the clouds would absorb my pain
the same way they absorb the moisture in the air.
I’d pray to the holes in the ceiling above my desk
if I could send my tears up there
instead of having to continually force them back
when my shoulders start to shake.

I’d pray to the jar of paper stars
given to me by someone I thought I’d never be without
if I could be with the friends that truly care about me again.
I’d pray to my car
if it could just take me back home for the weekend on autopilot
so I wouldn’t have to think about concentrating on the road
when all I want to do is go to sleep.

I’d pray to my zombie pillow pet
if it would take away my responsibilities
and allow me to rest for just one whole day.
I’d pray to the pictures of random cats on tumblr
if I could hold my own cats and cry freely into their fur.

Thinking about it,
it’s pathetic how willing I am to pray
for just a little relief from this dark wave
that seems to be rising like a tsunami,
ready to drown me in all the negativity
I thought I had been able to lock away.