In the Clouds

I only pray
As the wheels of the plane
Lift off the ground.
It isn’t that I don’t believe in God;
I don’t. That’s not the point.
It is the appearance of comfort.
The quickening unease coils in my stomach,
Banished from my body as I repeat well-worn words.
They’re scars written behind my eyelids,
They’re soft spoken security blankets,
They’re a ritual I cannot break.
The day I don’t consider those words
As the engines roar next to me,
That will be the day that God fails to catch me.
Even if he never existed.

I Had A Friend

I had a friend who listened to me;
she listened so much that she didn’t hear me ask about herself.
She kept her arms and ears open,
but not to the extent to which I could reach out and pull her into myself.
I wanted to save her,
she only wanted to save me, and leave herself in the cold.
One day she asked me why I didn’t care, and I didn’t have an answer.
I thought I had shown her my love through my voice, but she couldn’t hear it.

I had a friend who was kind;
she cared and cared for everyone except herself.
She wished the world to anyone else,
but didn’t stop to consider who cared for her.
I wanted to save her,
she only wanted to save me, and leave herself in the cold.
One day she asked me why I didn’t listen to her, and I didn’t have an answer.
I thought I listened, but maybe it wasn’t her words I was supposed to pay attention to.

I had a friend who listened, and a friend who was kind.
They stretched and yawned and curled into each other.
They were ready to come in from the cold,
But I couldn’t be the one to open the door.
They built a fire of my bones,
Stacked burning words atop my flesh, watched me sizzle,
and thought nothing of saving me.
I became ash.

I confess:
I do not know you anymore.
Oh, I think I do.
My mind hints at what you would say,
or how you would say it.
But truth be told, we’re
worlds away. And
for the most part,
that’s fine by me.
Of course, I’ve excluded
the pangs that wrap around
my lungs and squeeze.
I pretend you’re
not happy with her.
Your voice was the first thing
that was supposed to exit
stage left of my mind;
that hasn’t happened yet,
and it’s been too long.

Santa Claus

It interests me
This concept of Santa Claus
Putting children into two categories:
Naughty or nice.
Never both, or neither;
Polar opposites to which we
Have to adhere, for fear of
An absence of materialistic ideals.

Give me coal,
Give me saddened hearts and
Icy blood, a sick reaction to the
Dichotomy by which our society
Has warped this holiday.
Give me blasted ideals,
Give me opinionated thoughts
I don’t deserve Nice.

Flowery Language

It woos women
uses force
takes prisoners.
It smears itself in cream-colored paint,
lies down with sweet-smelling blossoms,
and begs to be picked
like the roses it sways next to.
Unlike roses,
this has no thorns,
it roosts in a glass vase
cultivating its escape
wondering when it’ll be needed again.
Cream turns to blood,
coating itself in the wounds
the lies have only just split open;
desperate to close them
relishing the change of color.


There’s the idea that you spend

your life searching for one person

who makes you feel alive

with magic and flourish and fireworks.

Ah, the fireworks. The so-called bursts of

color that kill themselves in front of closed

eyes, when your blood sings and breath

halts, the flames twist blues and greens

and golds; such a fantasy they are.