on the surface of dreams and wishes, breaking a fever with sex and poetry. My skin with the world is rotting. Save the dead bodies because they're going to be corrupted underneath pain and dying.
Forgive my skin and leave my insides alone, as my heart is thinking. My soul is the dirt we put our knees on, consumed with grief and religion-shit doesn't grow flowers overnight. And when the monsters close their eyes I'm wide awake washing the dirt from mine because I cry it every day.
And I think about bones and God too much, trying not to get them confused. I think I'm dead, the world is death, we are all dead. We don't have souls under all this fragile, shaky sense of right and wrong.
We are on the surface dripping into the Earth, dirty from having cracks.
YOU ARE READING
dirt & human
PoetryThis collection has the dirt for my grave and my soul for God but when it rains there's meaning for my muddy heart. (Some of the poems are older and published already, I moved them to this collection, so if you recognize a poem that's why.)
