fixing

i've prayed to life,
once or twice, because
i'm godless and nobody listens.
my voice is a choice that i have,
and i still haven't made the decision.
i'm not a perfectionist, and do not side
with precision. i use the right side of my
brain more than i do my left, and when i'm
out of breath, it's life's logic to look at
this and laugh.

i think about gruesome things, and more often
than not, i would like to shut them out. nobody
wants to think about the six feet under, where
skeletons lay in wooden boxes and rot as if they
never meant anything. by extent, why do we even put them in wooden boxes with silk lining, or bury them
with their favorite things? skeletons don't grow wings, and neither do sinners. you're losing the
point. if we build them boxes, we need to give them
space to breathe. let's build an underground city.
let's give them everything. you talk about your mother
as if she was a saint. are you forgetting the day
she beat you because you got your clothes in paint?
she wasn't holy, and your clothes may have been hole-y,
but we ignored the rude kids and trumped on
because what else could we do? the only
things we've got: me and you.

when your pupils are dilated, i think of
climbing into the dark space and holding a candle.
if i was made of wax, i could climb inside of your
mind and never burn out. i've seen myself as burning
ever since i was little and got burnt.
you can't see the scars unless i point
them out. you can't see the scars
unless i put your fingertips on
them, and say, you'll never
see this me again.

i wanted to kiss your lips and
fix all of your crooked teeth. you
got scared of the idea of them being pulled out, though
one grew through the roof of your mouth, and
hurt you like the way your mother yelled on christmas.
if I had my way, I would have found a way for each
extra to be extraordinary. you didn't believe in
miracles.

i'm scared. if i turn my wrist
in this electronic glow, i can see
the pathways i tore and attempted to walk.
i don't want to talk, not even to read this
aloud. if there's an error, blame the hair that
doesn't make its way from my pillow. i'm little.
i feel small even if i'm tall, and i wish i had
the gall to say this isn't true. but it is, and
it's about me, it's about you.