here we are, given these tired bodies and calloused hands and feet,
the burden pushed upon us like this, so what are we going to do with them?
the angel comes to you in the night and scratches at your window til you let him in,
let him tell you all about rusting halos and war and lightning-strike bones, and
just before the tears spill over, let him pull you closer than you've ever been to anyone.
my aunt who always did drink too much told me once that an angel had hugged her one night
and that it had felt like collapsing into a pile of branches, twigs and bark poking into her skin,
but it didn't hurt, she said, looking up from the river rocks we'd been painting.
it didn't hurt. there was paint on her hands and something hiding behind her eyes.
being holy is too much. i don't see why you'd want it.
being a thing with dead eyes and an absent father, living in fear of anything less than Perfection.
so to hell with being holy, i tell you. instead let's opt for being here now with each other in these bodies
but even that is a lot to ask, i know it is. Selfish to ask that of you. Selfish to ask you to be with me.
but Selfish is what i am, so i run to your house at midnight and scratch at your window til you let me in,
and i tell you about feeling wind on your skin in autumn and waking from a nightmare
to the smell of bread baking in the kitchen and the person you love running a hand over your hair
and maybe it's a sin for Us to want these things, pure as they may be, pure as we may be,
and i don't know about you, but i'm tired of pursuing purity like this,
tired of pursuing this when there's a perfectly wonderful girl sitting across from me.
so out your window we go, nothing but drawstring bags on our backs,
and you're chasing me down to the creek near my house and every now and then
i'll feel your hand brush against mine and suddenly my bones feel like lightning.
young footsteps against asphalt and soil and leaves, and then there we are
at the place where the stones are not yet painted and it's not wrong of me to love you.
we leave our bibles by the roots of an old oak, kick off our shoes, wade in.
the water is cool in the night air when you push me under, cool when you slip on the mossy rocks and fall in after me.
here is a new start, i tell you as we lay against the bottom, and i see that there's already paint on your hands,
that you're already started on creating something new for Us, our own piece of scripture, a new life
free of old books that tell Us that we're wrong for holding each other,
and maybe it's blasphemy, but when you grab my hand again, i swear my skin has turned to branches.
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i do miss you
except, i don’t.
i miss who i used to love.
people change yeah
but you didn’t change
you transformed into this scared little girl with her walls up
whatever hurt you, you’d never tell me
i didnt press, bc i thought it would pass
but it’s obvious that we’re two different people with different values and morals.
and i can’t spend my life with someone who constantly puts themselves in harms way
and doesn’t ever work on healing her wounds
yeah scars aren’t always pretty
but they tell a story.
i’d rather tell my story through scars than blood.
(idk ig a poem? lol i haven’t written in so long idek)
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