It is March and I am driving through the desert with you. You let me stop at the colourful rocks, abandon theme parks and fifties café.
You hold my hand the entire drive back to Los Angeles.
Maybe we don’t have to be good, maybe we don’t have to crawl on all fours repenting for our sins. Maybe survival is a form of rebellion.
Sometimes I think this life is purely payment for all the debts I owe. Sometimes I think if I sing the unsayable, I’ll open every window.
I promised I would bleed for better reasons this year. I’m always breaking promises even to myself.
You tell me you hate God, that you could never believe in anything.
But prayer is whatever you say on your knees. You're always on your knees.
One day perhaps years from now, perhaps months or even days you will feel me crawling into your mouth.
Because everything I do, I do to get more beautiful so you will want to love me in the cold and indoor morning.