How To Be A Saint

how to be a saint

they expect much from you. they will touch your skin and claim your blessing. they will chant your name until their lips form it without thinking, until their tongues have memorized the way it tastes, until they have said it so many times that they’ve claimed it as their own. your name is no longer yours. it is theirs. it is divine, now. 

you, too, are divine. they will fall to your feet and you will feel the whisper of their lips caress your skin. benevolently, gently, they will graze fingertips across your face like they are touching the face of your god. this body is not yours anymore. it is of the gods. it is a vessel. 

they will not always be so gentle. they touch you with reverence, yes, but they are hungry. they are hungry for the touch of the divine for the gods for you. they will devour you with dripping lips and red hands and smile and say more. it is never enough. it never will be. they will slowly taste your flesh and tear you to pieces. your blood is not yours anymore. it is stardust and ichor and wine and ecstasy. 

the choir sings like angels with your name at every breath and you realize their singing starts to sound like screaming. why aren’t you singing? Sing for us. your voice is the gods’ voice. no it is not your voice you do not get to speak for yourself. you never spoke for yourself. your voice is not yours. 

your body is a temple. they will offer up food and drink and more gold than you will ever need. none of it is yours. the church will take it. you do not know what for. they tell you not to worry about it. worry will mar that perfect face of yours. do not destroy that body gifted to you by the gods, they say. do not be ungrateful. they have made you a perfect vessel for us. this is not the first time they have made a temple out of a body. haven’t you figured it out yet? you own nothing. nothing is yours anymore. 

they crave you like they crave anything they cannot have. you are intoxicating, addicting, your silken skin and sweet voice. they stare up at you like you are a god, blinded by the light. they do not realize they are looking at a corpse. 

how come you are not perfect? you were molded in the shape of perfect beings. you should be perfect. they want more. they need more. you are not enough. if you are not enough they will feast on your flesh and lick their lips and beg for more. can you hear them screaming? they need more. more. MORE. 

you taste divine. 

Snaggle-Toothed Smile

TW: abusive relationship, grooming, death

Wolf is knocking on the front door

Sharp sharp teeth in a snaggle-toothed smile

Come here, little rabbit, let us play 

Come here, little rabbit, for I’ll stay here awhile

Wolf brings food to me every day

Come, little rabbit, I’ve come to play 

Wolf brings gifts to me every day

Come, little rabbit, have this beautiful bouquet

Wolf combs my fur for me every day

Protects me and never leaves me alone 

Careful, little rabbit, it’s dangerous outside 

Careful, little rabbit, don’t be on your own 

Wolf tells me how lucky I am every day

That he takes care of me, little rabbit 

And then he smiles that snaggle-toothed smile

Oh, little rabbit, you could become a habit 

Wolf accidentally hurt me today 

He asks me and asks me why did you make me do it? 

Feather-light kisses upon each wound

Snow white rabbit has become blood red rabbit

Wolf smiled that smile today 

Sharp sharp teeth with a snaggle-toothed smile 

Asked me, are you afraid of me? 

Run, little rabbit, run, run to the wild

Wolf didn’t come back today. 

Wolf didn’t give me gifts today. 

Wolf didn’t give me food today. 

My only companion was gone today. 

Wolf was oh so tender today. 

Wolf apologized for not coming yesterday. 

Oh, little rabbit, you will never be free.

Wolf killed me so gently today. 

kindred stars

night unveils her jewels at 

your askance, painting each 

star with patient detail; the 

heavens murmur to you and

gift you gossamer wings. 

climbing silken ropes of 

nebulae, delicate in their 

earthen creation, as if you 

are always reaching for 

the cosmos up above. 

You lift earthbound eyes to 

kindred stars—reaching, always

reaching, for a light that I

cannot see, yet—I want 

to see what you reach for. 

From corded aerie to stardust—

the velvet night spinning your 

dreams to eternity’s archive 

holding you in its arms; 

slowly—softly—gently…

Right Here, Right Now

TW: mentions of suicide, self harm

What if, right here, right now, 

I just jumped from off this roof? 

What if, right here, right now, 

I took this gun?—for no one’s bulletproof. 

What if, right here, right now, 

I took this rope and let me swing? 

What if, right here, right now, 

I took those pills? These tiny things? 

Coward, you screamed—coward, coward

Never did anything right

Always failed, always disappointed

So what if I gave into the night? 

What if, right here, right now, 

I took this knife, right at that vein 

Slashed ‘til I found blood and bone

And let thick crimson liquid rain? 

So slit my throat. Slit my arms. 

Slice this traitorous heart of mine. 

Carve these words into my chest. 

Smile and say that everything’s fine. 

Cut these thoughts. Cut these hands. 

Cut the voices inside my head. 

Ignorance is bliss—and so’s oblivion

‘Cause nothing can hurt me if I’m dead. 

Love, —

I’ve always wondered why people start their letters with “dear”. Were the first people to write letters friends? Lovers? Family? How close were they to spill their hearts upon a piece of paper, all starting with the word “dear”? 

I’m not going to start this with “dear”. You don’t deserve that. You never were my dear. Perhaps we could’ve, in another world, in another time. But not now. Not here. 

Is it possible to be heartbroken without any words being spoken? To crush hope without a noise? I always thought it’d be louder, bigger, greater, yet here I end with barely a whimper. 

I don’t know why I’m writing this. I should be over you. I thought I was over you. Yet each time I see you, there’s a pain in my heart, a twinge in my soul. You were the one who decided to stop talking to me, yet wherever you look at me, there’s something odd in your gaze. 

I don’t get it. Why? Every time I think it’s over, you talk to me—the barest conversation—and I do this all over again. You build me up then throw me down, all without realizing it. 

And I hate myself for it. I hate this feeling, this emotion that I can’t control. I hate that I know that it won’t work, yet I so desperately want it to work. I hate subconsciously looking for you everywhere I go. I hate remembering that your favorite color is blue, that you don’t like sweet foods. I hate thinking about your voice and what made you laugh. I hate knowing that you never looked at me the way I wanted you to. I hate knowing you loved someone else and she loved you too. I hate the relief I felt when you didn’t date her. I hate that I want you. I hate that I miss you. I hate that I love you. 

But I could never hate you. 

I wish I could. I wish I could scream and cry and yell at you. I wish I could tell you exactly how I feel. I wish I hated you instead of myself. 

But I don’t. 

So I’m sorry. 

I love you. 

how to tell a story

How does one tell a true story? 

My poetry is not true. 

They are half-truths I decorate in flowers and sugar. They are little lies that I rip apart and chew and swallow and smile with blood stained teeth and say: look. I am an artist. I give you my heart and I chop it into fine pieces so it is palatable for you. I tear the flesh from my bones and devour it and spill my entrails upon the floor and make my carcass into art. Look at me and praise my pain. 

I say: I am a poet. 

This is a lie. 

I am not a poet. I am a broken human being who spills ink and blood upon pages. I am a thief who steals all the pain from others and take it for myself so that I may sing about my grief. I am not a poet. 

I say: I am a poet. 

This is a truth. 

I grasp at words and lay them upon my tongue and savor the taste of honey and decay. I spit them upon the page and create art. The words says what my voice cannot. 

I say: she was searching for home. 

I do not say: she would never find it. 

I say: the bloodied sheets pooled around her like snow around a dead bird and she wondered if she was dying. 

I do not say: society told her that she was a woman now and her body was no longer hers. 

I say: she was a soft down-feathered bird, fluttering her feathers, singing so sweetly.

I do not say: they’d broken her wings. They’d torn them off of her and flung them into the air. They said it would heal. It did. Her flesh forgot the wrongs they’d committed. Her heart did not. 

I say: she was an angel. 

I do not say: she had sinned too much to ever fly again. 

(I ask: But what is sin? 

They answer: the antonym to purity. You are not pure. You are dirty, dirty, dirty. You are tainted and evil and sinning. You have turned your back to God.

God? I ask. Plaintive. Pleading. Pathetic. Who is God? Why have I been condemned? 

There is no answer.) 

I say: God is real. 

This is a lie. 

I do not believe in a higher being. I have seen too much to look up at the heavens and say that someone watches over me, cradles me, guards me, loves me. The pain does not make me a better person, make me more whole, make me more good. It does not teach me to value what I have. It does not make me more beautiful. Fuck that. I make myself beautiful. 

I say: God is real. 

This is a truth. 

It is a truth when I look at you. 

It is a truth when I am on my knees begging—I love you I’ll serve you I’ll do anything for you because maybe if I beg for your love as I do a god then you will not leave me and you will not hate me and you will smile at me and say that I am good enough. 

It is a truth when I pick up the pen and write. 

It is a truth when I write about love and sweet kisses and fate and destiny and you. 

I say: I love you. 

This is a lie. 

You do not exist. You are some distant wish in my head for love and companionship. You are some shapeless dream of a perfect partner, of a perfect kind of love. 

I say: I love you. 

This is a truth. 

I love the idea of you. I love the idea that love exists. I love the idea of sneaking kisses, of stealing your scarf in autumn, of waking up in your arms, of soft dometistic love. I love that somewhere out there, you exist, and you are not perfect, you are not heavenly, you are not the most beautiful creature to grace this planet—but you are you and I love you. 

I say: let me tell you a story.

I say: this is all true. 

I say: this is all a lie. 

I say: that does not mean it is not real. 

I say: truth is a semi-permeable membrane. 

I say: this is how to tell a story.