i keep waiting for the page to turn. this is not a book and
there is no resolution at the end of the hill, but i still expect
the miracle. i tell myself that the pen is in my hand but the
pen doesn't exist to begin with and i'm crying wolf while
already anticipating martyrdom. i'll return everything, i
promise—my rusted cross, my mangled bible, my faded
mantras etched into skin—because i don't believe in that
stuff anymore, but my knees are still bruised and there's a
prie-dieu at the church with my name on it.
it never really goes away, does it? the hope for purpose,
for the knife that cuts to create a space for asters in my
ribcage, for the spilt blood that gets wiped from my face
tenderly, for the desires that are granted with a kiss. i
am undeserving and i remain so—it's the hunger that's
beautiful, not the healing—and i am nothing if not
starved. a sculpture can corrode and tarnish and decay,
but so long as it's on display, it can never stop posing.
౨ৎ
note: this is kinda shit but i needed to break out of my writing slump somehow
