#12

I run fingernails upon my arms 

Praying some sort of truth will emerge instead of guilty blood.

There is the life I live and the transcendental experience that is.

I am a social enigma, a eclipsed mentality forced to endure a 14 hour totality 

Wrapped in a blanket of insecurity.

This night holds no home for me.

To pray.

To breathe.

They are not the same and I find myself trying to whisper the gospels with each exhale only

Finding myself unable to breath back in. 

Genesis gets caught at my lips.

My unsophisticated soul

Wide, open, breathing

Pumping, flowing, living.

They tell me it is not enough. 

I speak melodies of a tale I was once told 

Trying again and again to remember the words

They come out polluted, diluted, obscure.

This is not the right language.

I’m not sure if this is the right story for me. 

I break thoughts with splinters of melodrama

Telling my mind that this is the just passage of time.

Some day the words will come.

And though while I wait 

For the trees to grow 

I find myself alone with a chainsaw set on automatic.

With God in one ear

Mumbling nonsense about transcendence, 

I reach with two hands into the depths of human insanity

Fingering its seems;

It tells me to pull tight. 

That makes God go mute.

They tell me this guilty blood is hers,

That I am privileged to become the newest vessel,

But all I hear is that it will never be mine .

That I have no right.

This is not my story to retell.

But it’s not theirs either.