These Things Will Pass

my father told me that

he didn’t recognize faggots

as people; that animals

must pray to find forgiveness.

so each night i wrote my prayers

in a notebook, ripped them

out and allowed the words to

scar my insides. i was told that

if you sat still long enough

the ink would heal all wounds.

it only made me sick;

only made me break the

towers i forced my arms

to build, realizing that we

have all forgotten our god.

we allow our hearts to be

filled with pistols and brimstone,

shooting the doves inside

our children. innocence is a

doctrine burned from our bodies.

dreaming is a forgotten luxury,

the soft persuasion that understood

our wounds; that understood the

cuts inside us when absolution never came.

at night i pull words from my veins,

lay them like body bags on the ground

allowed them to spread roots in the dirt;

my own scripture singed to the grass.

these words are my ghosts. painted

doors etched upon their chests, not

ready to reveal how desolate they’ve

become. the ashes of their sins still

stuck in the silos of their broken throats.

the stars we sit beneath are labyrinths

to our dreams,reminders that

paper-cut wounds are not scars;

that these wavering prayers shall pass.