being sixteen in the pants I died full of questions
God went out of me as if the sea dried up like sandpaper, as if the sun became a latrine. God went out of my fingers. They became stone. My body became a side of mutton and despair roamed the slaughterhouse.
sorrow is easier than guilt.
Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.
It is June. I am tired of being brave.
Rejoice with the day lily for it is born for a day to live by the mailbox and glorify the roadside