Were the Angels that lonely?

Taking deep breaths in
the church parking lot,
I wish I could have
given you mine.
Fill the pews to give
this place some life.
(How ironic).
The preacher’s words call for silence
and it falls as heavy as our hearts.
The organ moans
(and mourns)
a cradle song
for your eternal sleep.

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dead-end

Screams splinter her throat
as tears drag mascara down
puffed-up cheeks.
Busted knuckles numb
to winter’s chill.
Trembling lips
whisper a last plea
to (any) god.

Worn out,
she finds herself
beneath the stars
that illuminate the
dying tree line.

“I’m so sorry trees,
for you have to lose
your loved ones once a year
whereas I can’t get over one
who left me years ago.”

nothing special

we were nothing special.
dethroned
enlightened insomniacs

chased by tidal waves
on a loose bricked path
we built ourselves

we were
running from the sharp
strike of the gavel

repent, repent, repent
in the early hours
begging for mercy

but we were nothing special
and forgiveness never lasts

Traveler

I tell him he should
prod the spirits that
condemn his numb bones.
But, in how many places
will a refugee chase his dream?
He’ll take a backwards glance
down a street in the late night
from which dreams,
his likeness,
forget to go home.
To what end?
Under what skies will
this traveler go without luggage?
I wonder how many times
my friend has wandered aimlessly
while the world changed.
With what hopes will
our neighbor
seek the road back
remembering old times?

[con]nected neglection

You sold yourself short
[again]
Made him your religion,
endless full mouth prayers.
He’s different, you say.
You follow each word
like it is the only way
to salvation.
Where are you going anyway?

Why do you bend over backwards,
twist to conform yourself to his ways?
Shed your identity
longing to become “one”?
Each move is not your own.
Predetermined motions,
you wait like an animal.
A footnote of the world,
always coming second.

Holy Roller,
I heard once that
necks don’t break
if you stand tall enough,
but I find you on your knees too often.
Indoctrinated by sharp epistles
and an even sharper tongue.

Praise him, you say.
But I see no truth in his ways.
I see a young woman,
a disposable disciple
of false direction.

Do not blind yourself in love
and follow readily
Hold strong to that which
brings you clarity
and understanding of your worth.

702

It was my third week in college
when I found myself in room 702.
It was,
a friend of a friend,
a spectacular scholar,
a future leader in our military,

It was non-consensual.

It was
a repeat offense
after every
“No”
and every
“Stop”
It was a
habitual trespasser
who just couldn’t
seem to find some
moral ground.

It was me swinging fists
and sending elbows into
tight limbs and wide eyes.
It was me with indian-burned wrists
and abrasions on my spirit.

He said “Touch it”
as if,
ding, ding, ding!
I was the lucky winner.
As if,
I should have been honored
to be his presence.
As if,
there was no other place
I would rather be.

When I reached out
for the door instead,
arrogance seeped out
through his swift breaths
and exhausted fingertips
as I seeped out into
a searing shower,
hoping to shed
my burgundy-stained skin
and any trace of
what made me prey.