A Nice Boy told me this:
If I was given the whole
Grand Canyon
to fill with what I love
about you,
I still wouldn’t have room.

And I fell for his words
like Abraham fell for God’s trick.

Except I wasn’t anguished,
I was only ever
rejoicing to be chosen.

And now I’m angry
and burying my fingers into my palms
until my nails leave crescent scars
and the pain erases the phantom
feeling of your hands.
And I ignore my friends
trying to uncurl my fingers and
press a cool washcloth to
my half-moon indentations,
because I’m only following myself now.

I’m not a ******* disciple.
These moons are my own;
the flag I’ll plant has my name
and my name alone.

I will never again be fooled
by the striking beauty in the cliffs and the
crevices
of the Grand Canyon —
all those baked red relics are
really just ruined land after
being worn away for years
by water and wind.

So I’ll say: Take
a stand, Abraham,
you don’t need God. Don’t
let anyone offer you
the Grand Canyon,
then make you climb it
to prove yourself.
And don’t let anyone
leave you on the highest point,
right where the sun burns you
raw in ten minutes,
dying of
dehydration
and
broken
faith.

Never give anyone the chance
to convince you
to **** Isaac.
And you know what?

Worship yourself
before any boy.