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[a-message-for-the-stars]

Sundays in Hell

Listening past the crackling fire, you can hear the sound of bells.

Heard by all yet mentioned my none

There is a sense of mourning that comes with Sundays in hell

An unspoken rule of what not to say

Today the bells were louder; a sense of dread rules over the burning valley.

A man approaches you, his purity a distant echo.

His stories, his angels

None of it is real in hell, like it was on earth.

You gain an audience as the man with a burning soul asks to take you to heaven,

Again, a place that isn’t real.

He apologizes, you did not sin, you do not deserve the burning of hell.

The offer is there but a knowingness fills the room.

There is too much ash in your hair to become an angel.

The lights of heaven would blind you, the water burning your skin.

Blurred lines separate heaven and hell.

If you had not sinned before you certainly had now.

You are not an angel, even if you were before.

Today, the man learns from the one place he hates.

You can fix everything you break.

Some things stay broken.

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[a-message-for-the-stars]

[a-message-for-the-stars]

Daughters of Eve

When Eve was given the apple, God did not place it in her hands.

In fact, he danced around with it, taunting her.

With each step she took towards the tree he laughed a bitter laugh.

Shaking his head as he watched her take the very steps he knew she’d take.

God did not give Eve the apple.

He was more cruel than that.

He made her hungry for it.

Years after Eve was banished from paradise

A father shouted at his daughter.

When fathers yell, they do not give their daughters their anger.

They taunt them with it.

Each shout becomes a step in their routine.

He screams, knowing one day she will scream back.

It is a father who makes his daughter yearn to yell.

But, despite her destiny, Eve is still a sinner.

Man fell because Eve ate the apple.

It is not said who made her yearn.

[a-message-for-the-stars]

Daughters of Eve

When Eve was given the apple, God did not place it in her hands.

In fact, he danced around with it, taunting her.

With each step she took towards the tree he laughed a bitter laugh.

Shaking his head as he watched her take the very steps he knew she’d take.

God did not give Eve the apple.

He was more cruel than that.

He made her hungry for it.

Years after Eve was banished from paradise

A father shouted at his daughter.

When fathers yell, they do not give their daughters their anger.

They taunt them with it.

Each shout becomes a step in their routine.

He screams, knowing one day she will scream back.

It is a father who makes his daughter yearn to yell.

But, despite her destiny, Eve is still a sinner.

Man fell because Eve ate the apple.

It is not said who made her yearn.

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I will repent until god replaces my decaying flesh, adorning me with light and angel wings so full of life. I will cry to a sky that's empty until the clouds part and I hear the comforting voice of his.

A moment of clarity not yet arrived, but I will clasp the holy beads in my hands as I beg. I will wait for salivation, I will wait for forgiveness. I will do nothing with my wretched body, but scream to the heavens. An untouched mind, clouded and dizzying. A body with bones brittle, ready to snap.

I am not worthy of your forgiveness. I will fix this. I will walk through the river and wash the dirt from all my skin, I will clean the dust from my mind. I will do whatever it takes to feel right. Something akin to toxic, something likely to hurt, I do not think a single thing. I will listen to his word and his Lord only.

I will rid this filthy body and mind of it's crimes. I will be pure. I will be gentle. I will be forgiven. I will have my hands de-clawed and my tounge removed.

I will let the sun set and rise in through my windows.

I will let it hurt until I do not feel the pain.

I will be soft but that gentleness will be a choice. A dedication. I will whisper prayers in the evenings and at night. I will whisper prayers in hope they will fall upon your ears.

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Sewing Flowers

Laying in a garden, shaking hands hold a needle and thread.

Back and forth, back and forth.

The needles dances as it sews, each stitch becoming part of a routine.

Back and forth, back and forth.

Placing fallen petals on a flower; gently stitching them together, piece by piece.

The routine begins to slow, back and forth, back and forth.

With each stitch preserving its life, its beauty.

Almost at a stop, the needle continues, back and forth, back and forth.

Though, a sewn flower cannot endure the wind, failed stitches leaving it bare.

And a flower that is sewn will be weighed down by the rain, forcing it to the ground.

If a sewn flower cannot dance in the wind nor play on the shore, why is it to be sewn.

To preserve a dead beauty?

Or to kill one that never died?

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Oh Boy of Fire

Oh boy of fire,

What is it like to be a monster?

What is it like to love so much it burns but never warms?

And fill rooms with ash but never light?

Oh boy of thorn,

What is it like to be a monster?

What is it like to have apologies that stab but never mend?

And have a voice that thorns but never flowers?

Oh boy of death,

What is it like to be a monster?

What is it like to have a heart that kills but never cares?

And have hands that choke but never hold?

Oh boy of fire,

Do you know what it’s like to be a monster?

Oh boy of thorn,

Are you a monster at all?

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God’s Understudy

What is an angel but an understudy of God?

A beacon of light and beauty that exists only to give one hope.

Doing so while trapped in their own goodness.

A life of perfection, which they did not choose.

Where they cannot feel flame and are limited in their own sorrow.

One where they will never be as loved as their creator.

A creator who can feel what they cannot.

Who is not limited like the angels that serve him.

He may cry all day and rage all night.

With no fright of falling from his endless throne.

Because when all is said and all is done.

An angry angel is a devil.

There is no name for an angry god.

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I wonder if there is a world out there where I am gentle. Where flowers like daisies grow from each step I taken— Where I have filed down my claws and I do not leave a mark on everything I love.

I wonder if I tried just a bit harder if my voice would be softer, kinder— I wonder if there is a time where I can be soft, and simple.

I wonder if there is a way I could get rid of this family heirloom, this anger, This anger that lingers— Under my nails, in my chest— This painful reminder of my harshness, The abrupt unkindliness of my person.

This anger has been passed down, Father to son, Mother to daughter— A gift that leaves your shoulders heavy and your chest heaving.

There is a reason so many in my family have taken to being loud— I worry that we are not built for being soft. I wonder if there is a day where I will be described as something safe.

When you are born among flames, The ash in your lungs is second nature— There is a reason my parents took up smoking.

There is this burning in my blood— I have my father's eyes ; I have his violence too. I have my mother's hair ; And her loud existence.

I am born into this anger. I am born with this burden. I hope that someday, I will mold myself into something loveable— I think I would enjoy being delicate.

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i smile with shaking hands and pretend they are shaking in excitement. i supress the urge to flinch as you take them in yours, and promise never to leave me. i feel owned. is this love? it does not feel loving.

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Flowers in Her Hair

Sometimes I worry that the only thing I’ll ever be is a little girl with her father’s eyes.

A little girl who picks flowers in hopes that they will grant her their beauty.

And who drowns herself in honey to absorb its sweetness.

A little girl who prays every day to beg for her purity.

And who reads every day to maintain her smarts.

A perfect little girl, so innocent, so kind.

Though I worry that a little girl with flowers in her hair still has her fathers eyes.

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for him.

i press my body up against yours, intertwined and entangled, no end in sight I am yours, my dear and I promise to wait. tonight I will stay by your side, hands shaking, clumsily tracing your features, speaking in hushed near silent words, heard by your ears alone. our lips gently touching as you wish me goodnight, i love you,  and that is all that matters. i feel your touch and I feel your love, we are one another, we are loved and loving, we could be love. i will be yours for as long as you want. I will carve myself into some semblence of a man for you.

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Flowers are from ash, and children are too

By: anonymous

Flowers are from ash, and children are too.

It is said that some children are simply born with tragedy in their blood.

And violence in their veins

But red doesn’t suit them.

So they learn to grow flowers from the ash in their lungs.

And water them with their own tears.

They use the fire in their heart as the sun.

And grow a whole garden.

Only to see that it doesn’t matter.

Only to see specs of ash on the petals.

And small burns on the leaves.

These flowers are not of those grown with love and care.

They wilt, and they rot.

Because they are flowers from ash.

And the children are, too.

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A Shadow in the Stars

You have left the stars speechless with all you have done.

And for what you will not be forgotten.

The universe takes a step to the side when it sees what you’re capable of.

Almost as if you are the entirety of it.

The moon gazes down on you and thinks about what a joy it is for you to see it each day.

The sun smiles when it beams down on you.

Asteroids yield to you and your achievements.

The world has recognized you.

The universe longingly stares at your perfection.

Maybe if I try harder, the universe will stare at me.

Maybe someday the world will recognize me.

Asteroids will yield to me.

The sun will smile at me.

And I will leave the stars speechless.

But not today.

For the stars cannot see me if I rest in your shadow.

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But tell me this, if the house is burning why do the flames so graciously lift me up into their arms, rock me, cradle me, and comfort me in a way nothing else ever could?

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Sometimes I think abt writing

That's it, that's the post.

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Clementine

By: Anonymous

When I was a kid,

I never asked my mom to peel my clementines.

I never asked her to tuck my in after nightmares.

Or push me on the swing.

I never asked my dad to show me how to ride my bike.

Or tie my shoes.

It was okay; they didn’t have the time

Years later, I find myself reading bedtime stories.

Whispering words to my brothers that I never got to hear

And scaring away the monsters under the bed.

A small hand reaches out; holding a clementine.

I peel it; I do not hesitate.

He smiles

And I realize that it only took a second.

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