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

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.

cancer sucks

there was a
slow bloom
inside her bones;
blood swirled thick with
betrayal.
this fight is
like paper airplanes;
intended for flight,
with no real direction.
diagnosis is absolute and
there is expectancy in the silence,
a kind of wheel-spinning stop.
faith dismounts without
warning or command.
Into the wind there are screams
like      v  a    p        o          r
Who is to answer anyway?
anger holds no place here,
there is no longer room.
She wears a cracked crown,
(royalty is meant to be untouched)
soon to be snatched and traded for
one premature halo

Trekking Trepidation

I ride fast along the
blurring treelines –
trying to get a fix, a rush,
a feeling of anything besides numb
and this pain in my left thigh
Keep telling myself freedom is happiness,
which is only true for so long.
Sometimes the desire to be needed
is no longer a want, but necessity
just like my feet need to keep pedaling,
to keep me going somewhere,
besides nowhere (dead).
I have hope tucked somewhere
between my ribs;
I know this because I can feel it
at night between the crying
and heaving.
In the rise and fall
it latches on to
my breath, reminding me
to find purpose, then
cradles me back to sleep.