i am not ashamed of the parts
you saw of me
you should be ashamed
of what you did with them

When I think of us
now, it reminds me of my
old religion:

a devout Catholic Christian.

My hands pressed together
--begging--
with my knees on the floor

for attention.

The light of your glory
hid under a bevy of bushels
--where it's most protected--

at a safe and
comfortable distance;

as the giving of a glow
diminishes its flame,
and the hunger pains for fire
enough to ***** it away.

When I think of us
now, I think of my
new religion:

I sit with palms
open and ask softly:
to be kind and beside me.

I smolder in embers
within a phoenix pyre;

it keeps me warm
and fed and requires
very little:

some feathers, some ash,
my happiness

you were a clock always ticking and
the beat of your heart a metronome
you were a bomb and
i did not know when you might burst.
you were combustible
an incendiary grenade
and i was the gasoline
to your wildfires.

you were at war with the world
your mind a battleground
and i cried when you asked me
whether i wondered if life was worth living
perhaps because
i myself did not know

when i went to bed at three in the morning
i still woke up in the middle of the night
i dreamt my heart had burst open, ripped at its seams
still beating faster than death could seize our time on this earth
i asked you why it was that
life is this way

you were an hourglass
trying make to time stand still.
and while i went to every corner of the world
to buy each and every clock that existed,
still, i did not know how to stop it for you.
i did not know how to save a life
when i could not live my own
correctly.

you were a ticking time bomb,
ready to explode;
and i could not clip the wires
of your mind.

Time's not real
but our energy is

waning and
unsubstantial

despite the waxy
substance sticking
stringing us together.

A touch of sun,
a lick of flame

melt away,
dissipate

What's not
torn down

by whatever
forces decide
to destroy:

The nails
worn with
yellow gloves

yes, and the
walloping water
that wicks wet,

is the same
sharp dry bursts
that blows up

cupcake confetti
through Pinkie's
party canon

Who am I naked for?
Truth be cold and so

shrivels the little member
with a whimper and perks up

******* ****** dry in
the night because the benefit
of co-bedding is not having
to wake to feed

a cry-- a simple sing-song slur

I was
raised Catholic
after all,
which means:

I've been
tenderly pruned
by the

Shears of
Catholic Guilt