“I
January is bare bones and barely breathing, cold air and cracked skin.
You, gibbous moon, waxing lyrical, hung low.
Like fruit ripe for plucking, a midnight tease.
We have fucked the night free of all its sins.
The soft tongue of winter is a whisper curled around the words of a love song.
The prayers are just promises we make to ourselves,
and that’s okay.
This is how we hide our hurt.
This is how we heal.
This is how a hand learns to hold itself.
Every body is a temple.
Every soul is a sacrifice.
We are all gods worthy of worship.
January is bare bones and barely breathing, cold air and cracked skin.
You will always be my miracle.
II
How do we go on growing?
How do we prepare for loss, and learn to love the leaving?
How do we hold on to belief when the grieving is grinding us down?
Who knew these days would be the darkest?
Who knew the holiest moments would be the hardest?
III
I’m drinking my own blood now.
There’s a poisonous taste in my mouth,
a scream begging to be let out,
and everything good has burned to the ground.
We talk about bones.
We talk about ghosts.
We talk about suffering.
We sing blasphemies to black skies and scream at the storm.
We’re taught to hate ourselves for hurting,
and beat ourselves up for being born.
We struggle for every second and carry every gift to the grave.
We try so hard to be perfect,
but in the end, only the sinners get saved.”
#Girrafevader.
