beloved, I need to tell you that god can speak your language

I need to tell you that angels have better things to do than keeping score

that you are no less holy piss drunk

in pissed streets, in sweaty sheets

than you are in Sunday parking lots

or pews or potlucks or thoughts and prayers

I need to tell you that god cannot be contained, understood, jailed, or molded within pages of books

or lines of poems

for gods sake throw away this poem

I need to tell you that any spiritual leadership worth it’s pillars of salt

comes with permission to throw their words in the trash whenever you see fit

vessels are content to sit on a shelf until there is water to pour

please beloved, throw this in the trash

and if your heart aches you can smooth out the pages

words can only be made better by the creasing


I’m sorry.

I’m so very sorry.

If I had known then? You wouldn’t be so bloody

I’m so bloody sorry.

Of course, now that I’m no longer 6

No longer 14

No longer 19

I have the tools to build those houses

To bring you in from the rain

But its too late for this hammer, these nails

It’s a flood and you drowned long ago

As our foreheads kiss, hot and cold

All I can think is maybe its possible to build a life raft from heavy limbs

The faces still bobbing, the mouths still shrieking, this ocean of lost girls

There are too many, I have to get started its time to get started

But I’m choking on sea salt and my lungs are storm drains

Oh dear, its too late

Maybe my next iteration will think to save herself first

black hole

static and prickled
you live on the edge of your skin
and I’ve been lost inside my ribs for years with
a mouth full of blood and rage

but then I followed breadcrumb kisses
to the surface of the sun
and I thought I was a moon, a body
to reflect your light

until you held my face to the mirror
so I could see we
were both stars
all angel and ruin

tell me this story again with
your lips against mine


you are not here and you are not there
you are ethereal, strung up between stars
are you stuck painfully? or comfortably settled?
i do not know, i cannot reach you

i imagine you thriving in the elsewhere
i have to or i will die
it is too much to bear
thinking of you without me
as i am without you

can you hear the sobs rattling my bones
i am sorry darling

they are all that i have

the day i learn i was wrong about jesus

If it turns out I’m wrong, I’m fine with that.

If it turns out Jesus wasn’t real, I’m fine with that.

If it turns out Jesus didn’t die and come back three days later, I’m fine with that.

If it turns out Jesus wasn’t holy or divine but just a guy that tried really hard and also messed up sometimes, I’m fine with that.

If it turns out Jesus was only a prophet and also not the only one, I’m fine with that.

If it turns out Jesus didn’t turn water into wine and miracles are what happens when want collides with coincidence, I’m fine with that.

If it turns out Friedrich Nietzsche knew what he was talking about, I’m fine with that. I won’t even be surprised – I’m a nihilist at least one or two days a week.

If it turns out Siddhartha Gautama had it figured out, I’m fine with that. I’m a buddhist, too.

If it turns out J.K. Rowling was right then honestly I’ll be a little peeved because it’s probably way too late for my owl to come.

But what if it turns out They were right? If it turns out the Bible is literal and historically accurate, if it turns out God destroyed creation because free will was a mistake and also asked someone to murder their own child just to prove a point, that God would send me to hell for having sex with a man outside of marriage or having sex with a woman ever, that I wasn’t supposed to have any spiritual authority over boys aged 12 and up or get any tattoos or eat shellfish..

If it turns out that I was wrong but I tried really hard and also messed up sometimes, I’m fine with that. If it turns out that all I did was take something ugly and tried to make something beautiful? That I broke apart their picket lines to build shelter, that I set fire to their books to bake bread, that I melted down their weapons to make art?

Yeah, I’m fine with that.