Lion Heart

Two things they wanted

me to know

about God.

One, that their heel

was on His throat,

The second, 

That their heel was on mine.

And I never thought of the second

playing into the first

or having

anything to do with God

at all,

but see,

Girl,

how my two

fingers

find your

pulse

when your

face goes still

and all hope

is placed

on layers of 

pleura

and a God

who won’t 

be

tamed.

Happy

My biggest

fear is 

your 

happiness.

Not your

sadness,

loneliness,

gut-rotted,

madness,

but the misconception

that content

is equal

to unloved.

Ugly

There’s your face

Cheek to my skin

And nobody even

Knows the shade

Of all the color

Bleeding into

The hollows of your

Cheeks,

But I feel it goes

Beyond the white

Of my outsides

and the grainy

Hash of my

Innards.

f I had

All the beauty

In the world,

I’d spoil it

By losing my name

and Yours, too.

And as our breath

Mingles,

You taking

Everything

From my reach,

And all I have left

To touch

Are the hollows,

those colors.

It’s All Relative

To what?

Maybe to the fact

that you’re the pretty

girl for such a small

and simple time

until you turn your head

and see that pretty

is mitotic,

standing before

your eyes

like the pretty

girl you used

to be.

Girls

There will always

Be two

Or three

Packed like

Sardines

Hating you

For your 

Beautiful skin

And cutting you

To watch you

Stop the bleeding.

There’s never

A good time

To look them in

The eye

Until years later

When you realize

That little rocks

Make terrible

Hearts

And little

Minds

Make terrible 

Friends.

Sticky

You want white

horse

dreams 

and freedom,

and adulthood

should go hand

in hand 

with those

but instead,

you’ll get

the sticky 

bottoms

of unwashed 

glasses

and 

the tired

in my eyes

every time

you close

yours 

to your

sink full

of 

dishes.

Gift

I want you

to know 

the inside

of everything

I’ve never

seen.

But I know

how your hands

react to new,

oily fingers

manipulating

each edge 

until everything

is worn down

and your gift

is just another

part of your scenery,

dirty car

and screaming kid

and ungrateful

sight

of a life

with no

bow.

Microscope

Memory is a godly thing,

a sea-like thing,

that brings you in

or 

spits you out

or 

takes you under,

or

drowns your sense

until you think

that moment he loved you

was the whole organism

on a cellular level,

and you look at it 

now and then

when all is quiet,

trying to name

and label the parts.

Trying to find yourself

in the building blocks

of something

long dead.

Spinner

I’ve got two minutes

but only show you

one 

and you think

of me 

as your world

ever-revolving,

and I 

let you have 

those thoughts

because 

I’m chicken

and lock

all the doors

to the lives

I’ve left

behind.

Knuckle-deep

Hope

is the fickle

thing

I carry unbuckled

in my chest

and tell

the girl about

because I don’t 

want her to 

know the hard parts

written in the dark.

But who am I to keep

her from crawling,

digging knuckle-deep

into the path

God’s carved out 

for her 

with His

sharp-ended

ray

of 

light?