as he sits in the pews between his alcoholism and his wrath,
I wonder if he feels more at home among those sinners
than he ever felt with me.

they say the tongue is the strongest
muscle in the human body,
but his locked jaw has wounded me more
than any weaponry he contains behind those teeth.

a phantom limb I am plagued with:
sometimes, I feel like he cares.
sometimes, I hurt at words he never speaks,
like have a safe flight,
or you have always been enough.

in church, we were taught
that the words god and father were interchangeable.
when I stopped believing in god,
I wonder if he watched his bloodline run thin.
I wonder if it ached.

I am the girl who cried apology,
and you,
the embodiment of naive forgiveness,
come running at each little distress.
one day, you’ll learn,
but until then,
just tell me it’s okay.

I can tell you’re tired
of hanging up my skeletons every night.
I’ve been growing lazy with keeping them
in their proper places,
letting them crumble into piles on the floor.
your exasperated sighs grow heavier,
but you never argue or complain,
simply cleaning up every mess I make.
I wonder when you’ll hang me up,
but until then,
we’ll pretend a little longer.

let our hands intertwine,
and we’ll ignore the difference
between love and habituation.
let me repent in your light,
and teach me how to become it.
I want to learn to be something
other than sorry.