#xmas - Hello Poetry

I kept time beside Gethsemane on Christmas night— a borrowed harmony in 6/8, her laughter seated between Chloris and the hymns. We called it friendship, thin as gauze over a bleeding stave, while the car hummed in borrowed warmth and I learned how quiet a god can be. Chloris drove me back to my car five times— five false codas, five chances to be alone with you, each return a fermata I mistook for fate. I cried the whole way home, again, years compressed into a single drive, convinced this refrain would finally resolve. But it never does. I sobbed into my pillow for the third movement of the same symphony— a violin tuned to my chest, played by the same hands that never mean to cut, yet always draw blood. My heart is tired of being practiced on. Tired of breaking for the same soul in different keys. I am an orchestras of ache— every emotion scored in triplet pulses, every longing detonating in drop-tuned grief. Why do I keep believing Gethsemane will love me back? She won’t. I am a familiar voice to keep tempo, a steady shoulder for off-beat nights, a metronome she leans on until someone better arrives. I will never be chosen. I will never be loved in the way I love her. She will never worship me as I have worshipped her with open hands and open ribs. I am the joke gods tell themselves when eternity gets lonely. So here I am— 4:20 a.m., the day after Christmas, collapsed in a minor key, Badflower bleeding through the speakers while the universe ignores my downbeat. I cry into my pillow for believing, again, that devotion might be answered instead of used. This is the cruelest lesson of immortality: even gods can be reduced to silence by the same human over and over and over again.

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Jan 22

Jan 22, 2026 at 12:29 AM UTC

InkWept

Carol For The Unchosen God

I kept time beside Gethsemane on Christmas night— a borrowed harmony in 6/8, her laughter seated between Chloris and the hymns. We called it friendship, thin as gauze over a bleeding stave, while the car hummed in borrowed warmth and I learned how quiet a god can be. Chloris drove me back to my car five times— five false codas, five chances to be alone with you, each return a fermata I mistook for fate. I cried the whole way home, again, years compressed into a single drive, convinced this refrain would finally resolve. But it never does. I sobbed into my pillow for the third movement of the same symphony— a violin tuned to my chest, played by the same hands that never mean to cut, yet always draw blood. My heart is tired of being practiced on. Tired of breaking for the same soul in different keys. I am an orchestras of ache— every emotion scored in triplet pulses, every longing detonating in drop-tuned grief. Why do I keep believing Gethsemane will love me back? She won’t. I am a familiar voice to keep tempo, a steady shoulder for off-beat nights, a metronome she leans on until someone better arrives. I will never be chosen. I will never be loved in the way I love her. She will never worship me as I have worshipped her with open hands and open ribs. I am the joke gods tell themselves when eternity gets lonely. So here I am— 4:20 a.m., the day after Christmas, collapsed in a minor key, Badflower bleeding through the speakers while the universe ignores my downbeat. I cry into my pillow for believing, again, that devotion might be answered instead of used. This is the cruelest lesson of immortality: even gods can be reduced to silence by the same human over and over and over again.