sometimes, out of great pensivity,
instead of telling the truth
when people ask "how are you"
I hold on to the idea of "privacy"

not today

for the second time this week
I break

the parts of me I dammed shut
came bursting out fast as Niagra Falls

these words I scream are like rocks,
breaking happiness on friends faces
like stained glass churches

and my happy dust falls away
leaving everyone in stunned numbness

shadows of questions drip off their faces
as if they had wicks sticcking out of their heads

what do you say to people you love
when you didn't mean to say anything at all?

nothing.

you run out of there
as fast as legs can move
and hide sobs
with pillow cases

Anxiety makes familiar faces unfamiliar. My stomach aches in church. The monster in my head turns my loved ones into monsters also. No safety net, only cement. My pastor talks of Paul escaping Damascus, being lowered down a wall in a basket. I feel that sick swaying and tense fear. I am held in sleep but must keep moving. I am kept awake but feel sleep like a strait jacket. Save me God. My life is only nothing without You.

i've got bandages over my rib cage
just beneath the skin
a thick, foreign material holding it all together
the silk ribbons i've tied over soft bone
in my attempt to compensate for the lack of
beauty in this frame  
this heart is so worn out i wonder
how it doesn't stop
even when it's breaking
it is beating
it's keeping rhythm
it's got the names of everyone i'm missing
tucked inside it's valves
i've got spirits of lost love haunting all it's halls
let my chest cavity be the church
the resting place in the body
i hear low voices singing sad hymns in unison
echoing against it's walls
bury me beneath the dust and rock in the mountains
so my God can carve me out of the marble
and i can start again
maybe i could make it through
without my bruised up skin

I feel God touch my cheek
while the congregation sings-
and for a moment, everyone is in key.

I hear my mother crying in the bathroom
and my sister singing beneath the porch light,
I hear my father's voice cracking as he tells me about his father
and my brother bidding me goodnight
with every chorus of Hallelujah.

I have been broken, I have lain defeated on these hallowed steps.
My eyes burned in the light of our savior and I fell with little grace.
I had lost all faith;
I had given up everything.

Now I stand as myself behind Him
while the congregation sings,
and from now on, love is not a sin.

I feel God touch my cheek
while the congregation sings-
and for a moment, everyone is in key.

I hear my mother crying in the bathroom
and my sister singing beneath the porch light,
I hear my father's voice cracking as he tells me about his father
and my brother bidding me goodnight
with every chorus of Hallelujah.

I have been broken, I have lain defeated on these hallowed steps.
My eyes burned in the light of our savior and I fell with little grace.
I had lost all faith;
I had given up everything.

Now I stand as myself behind Him
while the congregation sings,
and from now on, love is not a sin.

angels.

angels who miss their wings at 3 am when they feel more out of place in this body then before, angels who need pain to bring themselves out of their dreams, who ink themselves with words only prophets would understand; angels who have the most ordinary jobs like bus drivers and paper boys, people see them and think about them for moments too long.

angels who turn to drinking and smoking, trying to forget the feeling of their wings pushing air behind them as they flew. angels who can't avoid the call of the sky and become pilots who are always drinking coffee because the caffeine reminds them of the golden ichor that was once flowing through their veins.

vengeful angels who become pilots as well, who terrorize the winged folk to feel powerful again, to feel control again. angels who message each other, fingers trembling as they type out their dreams, trying to grab those memories that are just out of reach, gauzy and filled with blood and silver-tinted skin and golden eyes and so many feathers. angels who live in church basements and see pictures of themselves in the stained glass windows and go unclothed, trying to reach that feeling of purity, freedom.

fallen angels who burn churches, filling their lungs with smoke as they climb to the steeple, not just from reprisal but from the feeling of mutiny. angels who ride out into the country alone with a handful of stolen cash who steal from nearly empty gas stations and throw rocks at the windows of abandoned barns after they've climbed to the roof and back to earth. angels who streak their backs with ashes because they don't have the scars that they should from having their wings torn away and the golden ichor doesnt bleed away and stain the ground like it used to.

angels who hang out in bookstores and coffee shops because they're looking for an oracle or someone, anyone, who will listen to their impossible dreams of flight and blood spattering the ground, of fighting and dying and they can't explain it.

angels with shaky hands who try to find love because there's something missing and everyone tells them that love will help them, and maybe it does, but there are always angels out there who have loved and loved and there is still something BROKEN, something LOST, and it's been pounded into their minds that they'll never know what it is. angels who run with demons and devils because there's nothing quite like the rush of running in the dark, standing at the edge of the city and feeling the wind nearly blow you off as you curl your toes on the edge of the roof, so close to the sky it takes their breath away.

angels.

forgive me father for I have sinned
I can't repent
I am not your child

forgive me father for I don't believe
I am not pure
I do not give my body to Christ

forgive me father for I am an adulterer
I have laid with man before marriage
I did not save myself

forgive me father,
or not.