Friday, October 12, 2018

why am I still speaking to you?

To you— a God who is not as sophisticated as my pride. A God who’s really quite childish, and simple. A God who doesn’t have the ability to nuance and finesse points to make himself look better.
You really are so on the nose—antagonistically obvious.

I just want to play a game.
And you are breaking all my rules—
Just like a child whose imagination insists that there are more ways
Than this one—
Just like grace.

The tender fingers of our God
Grab me by my throat,
And I cannot breathe,
My heart cannot beat.

I am slowly drowning,
Staring out the open window to the
Rain-soaked fire escape.
I am suffocating
Because your absence is a vacuum that
Sits heavy on my lungs.

I sit up in bed,
Trying to claw my way out of hell.
The night is so humid,
Without being hot.

My head throbs with exhaustion,
But I cannot sleep—
My heart itches in my chest.

Spirits move one breath at a time—
there is no absolution,
but a small island of consolation,
an oasis of sweetness in the midst of sorrow:
a glimpse from purgatory of a paradise,
unattainable but not entirely unseen.

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