The past nights words were feathered hermits that passed before your quill could grasp them and tonight is no different; you have not forgotten the taste of salt on fresh cuts the sound of secretive moans of a maiden still naked in her childhood sweater you only stopped documenting the miseries that remain faithful to their vow to build you a monastery. ~ I haven't held a secret in so long, but oh God, I can still feel the ghosts on my shoulders as I pick my way up to our pretend Olympus to give my testimo st. anger, you unkind sir I've kept these bruises for you and your incestuous sister ~ anxiety but I should return them to you properly so that you can place them between your ribs, where the sound of prayer flows in your veins. note to veins: you are full of skies but I'll never have kites for tattoos to cover track marks from my childhood. I used to crave hands like they were some sort of cathedrals but now i can't imagine you ever lifting me up in your royal psalms I'm struggling with it every day when will I be okay when will I look at another person and not try to find you in their laugh lines and unshaved face I want to believe that I am something worth holding something worth saving & writing songs to but God knows I am but acres of drylands never fluid as the gospel never a holy place in your eyes.