Does it change anything

If I prayed

If I went to church

If I was kind

If I believed

Only

I prayed to the moon because it made more sense

I went to church to make friends

I was kind without a threat of consequence

I believed in the beauty and cruelty around me

Bugs do not worship me before I am about to kill them

Bacteria have no ability to perceive me

How cruel it would be if I could punish them for these things

It shouldn’t change anything

The dark hours of the morning hide the emerald moss growing along

the spine of a willow tree

shining with the collected

humidity from the cold winter air

A few yards away

The dark hours of the morning hide

the bundle tucked away

in the outside corner of a store

muddy boots sticking out from beneath

an emerald sleeping bag

shining with collected humidity from the cold winter air

This scab won’t ever heal

I can’t stop picking at it

I watch the blood congeal

And continue this nasty habit

I chew on each dried blood clot

I taste the iron on the tip of my tongue

While having the same reoccurring thought

I want to go back to when I was young

When my skin wasn’t covered in scars

Before the light in my eyes faded

I’d store my youth in bottles and jars

My best qualities becoming marinaded

Once a year, I’ll pull them out

Wear them like clothing on my birthday

Never having any self doubt

Never worrying about what others think or say

Though to be honest, I am far crueler

I pick at metaphorical scabs, too

The process eerily similar

Finding painful memories to savor and chew

I don’t know what it means to let go

To set things down and move on

I ruminate until my feelings overflow

And rip off healed parts my fingers come upon

(Short)

We walked through the yard searching for the shovel and pickaxe. There was a box behind a broken and forgotten recliner. In August, even after the sun has set, the air is humid and warm. Our foreheads perspired with sweat as we searched. I also looked for flowers to place on her grave, but flowers were few and far between. I could only find things such as lavender and a weed with tiny white flowers. They were only half blooming. Half-grown flowers for a half-grown corpse. When we found the tools, we had to climb over an old half-broken wire fence. He broke the hard, dry ground and dug a shallow grave. With each swing of the pickaxe he gasped for breath. I stood watching in sandals half-covered in poison oak. In my hands was the tiniest bouquet of half-blooming weeds I had ever seen. I placed them on her grave and cried. I did not cry because she was dead, I cried because she deserved more than half-grown flowers. She deserved more than to die in a half-grown body.

I was warned of dying bees at age 7

so I planted sunflowers

I was warned of overflowing landfills at age 13

so I recycled

I was warned of depleting fossil fuels at age 18

so I drove an electric car

I was warned of our dying planet at age 22

so I cried

Eight hours of hell and

I'm back from it

laying in Boston Terrier PJs and

watching old cartoons stoned and

laughing when

I see you snoring and

drooling

your eyelashes long and

dark against the white of your skin

unaware and

still

you have brown hair plastered against your cheek

I never noticed

the curves of your face framed by

the blue soft hue of mornings light.

Breathe and then kiss him

Close your eyes and focus on the feeling of his lips

Do not flinch when his tongue invades your mouth

Calm yourself when his hand touches your thigh

Remind yourself that you love him

Think of how happy he will be if this works

Think of the peace you will feel when it is done

Do not let the guilt seep in, it will only make this harder

Tell him to go down on you

It will relax you and the rip will not be as severe

Brace yourself for the insertion

It will hurt

Tell him to go slowly

The sharp pain will dull with each thrust

Say a silent prayer that he will finish quickly

Do not let the guilt overwhelm you

If you cry, he will stop and you will only feel worse for it

Later, when you go to pee, do not wipe

You must pat yourself dry instead

It will still sting, but it will be short and minor compared

Hurry back before the self loathing sets in

When he asks if it hurt this time, do not lie

Hold him when he looks sad

Cradle his head in your arms

Together say a silent prayer that this will be the last time.

Clear, gelatinous, flattened spheres littered

the beach around me. They appeared

invisible to the unaware eye of people strolling

along the seaside. I had to step carefully around the

numerous carcasses of jellyfish. My lover

lead me by the hand through the carnage. I was

tempted to touch the first one I saw, but he had stopped

me. He explained the tentacles can still sting even if

the jellyfish is dead. I stared at their bodies for far

too long as I noted the faintest hints of organs

and other body parts of a jellyfish. I had never

seen one in real life, and I still felt as if

I was looking at a pale imitation of it.

We drove past his old high school. As we got closer he pointed out a metal table and said "We used to play hackysack there, where the table is, under that tree."

As we drove by, I stared at the benchtable as it was dappled with sunlight, with patches of shade from the tree branches. It stood out against the bright green grasses surrounding it. The tall light brown oak tree towered above it all with the backdrop of a generic looking high school. The scene before me felt both nostalgic and foreign all at the same time.

It felt as is I was cheated by fate, as if it robbed me of knowing him much sooner. I almost could see myself and him beneath that tree, but instead it faded away with the lines of the road. When it was gone from view, his fingers intertwined with mine and brought my hand to his lips. He looked at me sweetly and I felt his grip tighten. I breathed deep and felt the pangs of jealousy ebb away. I began to focus on the road ahead of us.