I Have A Hard Time Praying. I Think Its Because My Heart Is Too Big For My Chest, My Emotions More Than

I have a hard time praying. I think its because my heart is too big for my chest, my emotions more than my body, I start to pray and everything rushes out, and im left there, a raw nerve, feeling more than what can fit in my skin. My prayer is feeling, splaying myself open, prying open my chest rib by rib until I am finally free. A cavernous expanse to be filled and understood. No words express the feeling of taking my still beating heart in my hands, blood dripping off my finger, and laying it at His Feet. That is all I can envision, surrender. How am I to pray in words when my feelings surpass that? What else am I to do other than lay my heart upon the ground and let Him fill me for how can I articulate my emotions better than He can understand them?

-Meditations at the foot of the Eucharist, July 2023

(s.m.)

I never wanted to be your villain, but I couldn't do this anymore, and of course I'm not fucking sure. I have loved you for five years and now I am making you cry while I stand barefoot in the driveway rocks digging between my toes and I wish It felt easier to rip your heart out. I wish it felt like reparation for all the tears I shed but I still just feel like the villain who stood there, feet bloody on the gravel, and watched you cry. -After, July 2023 (s.m.)

Sometimes, late at night, I hold your sweatshirt in my hands. It doesn't smell like you anymore and I don't put it on, but for the last week I have left it laying in the corner on the floor. Every time I pass by it I think of you. I don't cry, or try to see if your smell lingers, I just, hold it, staring. I don't know what it means .

I don't know.

-After, August 2023

(s.m.)

Oh, how terrible it is to hear all the words I wanted for so long to be presented with an outstretched hand the cliff drop below me and to know I can't take it to know it's too late. I have already bloodied my fingertips pulling myself back up.

-Lost After Writings, May 2023

(s.m.)

I long for an explosive, violent, love. The kind that leaves us both bloody and broken but utterly alive.

I want to take a chunk out of my lover with my teeth and for them to grin at my bloody lips because they never wanted me docile, I never have been docile, and I am so tired of being nice.

Maybe that's because my last love bled me dry slowly over time. Now, I want my violence up front, if I am going to break I refuse to softly fade away, I want to go down swinging.

-After, July 2023

(s.m.)