Your body is my temple.

Your footsteps are my holy ground.

Your touch is a sin I willingly commit. 

Your kiss is a forgiveness I do not deserve. 

Though you give them to me freely. 

I come to you with no gifts,

save the love of my heart.

And though others have come to your door,

with piles of gold,

pages of flowery words, 

and beauty beyond compare;

you chose me. 

And I will never understand

why someone who has walked with Gods,

could possible love a mortal soul like mine.

But I promise to worship that love for all of my life. 

She was too young they said. 

That was the excuse they used,

to charge the girl with flame red hair to death.

She cried bright blue tears like the sky.

Begged like the child she was. 

Innocent 

Innocent

Innocent

No one cared to listen to her pleas.

Guilty

Guilty 

Guilty

They called as they dragged her through the streets.

In one hand they gripped a Bible,

and in the other a stone. 

And though the blood dripping out of her was red

and no devil spawn came to save her

her fate had been sealed. 

They bound her beautiful thin frame to the pyre in the middle of town.

She searched their faces for an ounce of regret,

a shred of humanity,

but she could find none. 

Fear had driven them mad.

The fire would purge her of sin they shouted. 

But she had not sinned,

the fire would only purge her flesh and bones of life. 

She begged one last time as smoke filled her nose. 

Please

but no one heard. 

As red-yellow flames engulfed her. 

Her screams split the sky sending birds to the air. 

The sun hid away in shame. 

The people watched until her screams died away. 

A pile of smoldering ashes was all that was left of the girl with flame red hair.

I have very few fears.

Spiders

unprotected heights

public speaking.

But the thing I am most afraid of ,

the thing that keeps me up

and makes me weak at the knees.

Is the people I love.

not knowing how much

I love them.

I try to tell them

every chance I get.

Some days though,

I forget.

I let my anger

hate 

frustration 

and stress

cloud my heart. 

When I realize what I have done

it breaks my heart,

it takes the breath from my lungs,

it makes me cumble to the ground.

I hurry to tell them again 

I love you.

But is it enough? 

If I die tonight,

just fall asleep and never wake up,

will they know how much they mean to me?

Will I be able to leave the Earth knowing I loved deeper then anything?

Will my sister know, 

all the days I felt like I had failed and couldn't do it anymore

she was the one who told me I could?

Will my little brothers know,

how much playing with them filled my heart with peace?

Will my parents know,

how grateful I was to have been raised the way I was?

That is my greatest fear.

I don't need my name carved into stone,

I don't care if the world forgets who I am,

As long as those I care about remember me.

For loving them,

protecting them,

and being there.

I don’t know much about war,

Not the innocent game played by children with paint and finger guns,

But the wars of nations.

I don’t know the chaos of a battlefield,

or the vastness of a graveyard filled with flags.

I don’t know what filling a sink with blood from your hands that isn’t yours looks like.

I don’t know what holding a dying friends hand feels like.

I don’t know what staring at a tangled mass of bomb wires does to your heart beat.

I don’t know what it’s like to stare at a telephone while twirling a wedding band praying its his voice that calls.

I don’t know what it’s like to say I love you to a letter and seal an envelope with a kiss.

I don’t know what it’s like to flinch at fireworks.

I don’t know what its like to be afraid of home.

I don’t know much about war.

I am from a one-stoplight town. 

I am from cornfields and watermelon smiles. 

I am from the backstretches of racetracks,

now long gone. 

I am from dusty barns and horse kisses. 

I am from the backseat of trucks and tractors. 

I am from peanut butter sandwiches for lunch,

and champagne glass dinners. 

I am made of suitcases and colored pencils. 

I am made of old books and hourglasses. 

I am made of long nights with the radio turned up, 

and early morning coffee cups. 

I am,

 50% hard work

30% writer

15% dreamer

5% gas station candy

Where i’m from has made me who I am.

Where I’m going has yet to be decided.  

One new voicemail,

*

*

*

I’m so sorry

*

*

*

( Always pick up the phone, it might be the last time.)

Today they broke my wings.

Tore out the feathers out one by one.

They ignored my screams of agony.

They set fire to what was left,

to ensure I could never fly again.

They drowned my eyes with water,

until they were sure my light had gone out.

They broke my legs and hands,

so I could not fight.

Then they left me broken and bloody,

ashes swirling around me.

But they forgot about my claws and fangs.

I dug through the ashes,

until I found one glowing ember

and rekindled the fire in my eyes.

I set my broken legs and rose again.

Not like a Pheonix

for I had no wings.

I was something different.

They killed the angel,

and woke the demon.

Promise me,

when you get home

this time you’ll stay.

Promise me,

you’ll try not to cry

when I walk down the aisle.

Promise me,

we’ll walk hand in hand

into our forever home.

Promise me,

You wont laught at my

“gourmet” dinners.

Promise me,

we can do this 

when the nurse hands us her.

Promise me,

when the next two come 

we’ll be ready.

Promise me,

our fridge will become

an art museum.

Promise me,

we’ll make it

through every storm.

Promise me,

we will always

forgive.

Promise me,

we'll have done okay

as they drive away.

Promise me,

as our bodies grow old

our hearts will stay young.

Promise me,

if you go first

you’ll wait for me.

Promise me,

that our love

will live on.

I promise.

He has been called many things, reaper, angel, guardian, guide, but I knew him as a friend. 

    The day I met him it was cold, snow was piled high along the roads and sidewalks. I was sitting in the park, abandoned at such a late hour, my back pressed up against a bench my hands clutching the stab wound in my stomach. I glanced down at the large pool of blood seeping into the snowy slush under me. My breath came out in short burst the cured up and away from me. My head was getting light my eyes, drifting closed. I had given up trying to move I couldn't and even if I tried to yell, no one was around to hear me. Through my bleary vision I saw a man coming up the sidewalk, he had a long black trench coat, buttoned against the cold, a thick felt hat pulled down low obscuring his face. At first, I thought it was the man that attacked me coming to finish the job. I tried to shuffle away but I couldn't move. The stranger knelt down next to me pushing his hat up so I could see his face, it was beautiful; his whole face looked like it had been carved from marble, like a statue in a church. Looking into his eyes was like looking at a kaleidoscope, the colors swirled and danced outlined in fire. 

"Easy," he whispered. His voice was soft, like a summer breeze, the dim streetlight illuminated his head making it look like he had a halo.

"Are you an angel?"  I asked faintly. He smiled warmly.

"To some," he replied. Moving my blood soaked hands to look at my wound.

 "Can you heal it-like-like in the movies?" I asked shuttering.

 "No,'" he replied placing my hands back over the wound. My heart sunk even further into my chest. It was getting harder to breathe, harder to think, but the world seemed to have slowed down. My blood came out slower even the wind seemed to be a whisper compared to its earlier bite. 

  "If you can't heal me why are you here?" I asked. The man looked up at me and suddenly he looked very old.

  "I am here to make sure you don't die alone and to help you get where you're going," he said softly. Suddenly tears started falling from my eyes and fear shot through my veins.

 "I'm going to die?" I stuttered. The man simply nodded. I didn't want to die, I wasn't ready I,  suddenly I was overcome with so many emotions tears flooded my face in time with the blood still seeping from my wound. The man gently took a cloth from his pocket and gingerly whipped the tears from my eyes.

"No one wants to die there will always be things left undone. Dreams unfulfilled, passions not pursued, choices not yet made, but that is the tragedy that comes with the gift of life you will never be truly done living," His words calmed me. 

 "How much longer do I have?" I asked.

 "Not much longer," the man replied. It had started to snow at some point, I turned my head to watch the little snowflakes fell towards the ground in slow circles dancing in the air. 

  "They're beautiful aren't they?" The man asked. I turned back to him his lashes were dotted with snowflakes, slowly melting, down his face. I nodded softly. 

 "I think I'm ready to go," I whispered. Having seen the snow one last time. The man smiled at me, his face so full of love.

"Take my hand," I did as I was told placing my cold, bloody hand in his warm one. Suddenly time froze. The snow stopped, I was sitting in a field of green grass; the air smelled like warm earth and wildflowers. The slushy snow became the gently lapping of waves against the shoreline, the moon turned into the late afternoon sun, and the harsh winter wind that had frozen me was now a soft summer brreze. 

 "Where am I?" 

 "Home"