On the first of November, you
asked if I believed in God anymore.
Coffee grounds spilled as I inhaled in
shock, fingers fumbling with 6 AM fog.
The demons hadn't exonerated
my body yet; they held me on trial,
vessels enraged, muscles twitching.
You hardly noticed, wanting to
know if I still believed as fervently
as I did a decade ago.
I wanted to smile, to shriek
in your ears, to brew crows and
lace them through your lungs.
If you could know how loudly I've
prayed for your death, how homicidal
thoughts aren't that different from
suicidal ones that hatch in the sternum,
Murder in the veins,
I have no regrets -
But instead, I gave you the most
pitiful eyes, eyes of ocean corpses,
"I- I think I've lost my faith."
Your slow nod,
"I won't tell Mom.
It would break her."
Believing you'd be doing
a favor to someone too fragile
for a truth she'd prefer.
I watched the emotions
roll over your broken foundation,
your hands molded together like clay,
while my hands ached for you to
find the blind spots of culpability,
threads of a deconstructed noose,
