it'll pass.

my grandmother has instilled in me an urge to pray at night which i return to with desperation at my deepest sorrows. “I need some older, wiser being to cry to. I talk to God, but the sky is empty.”

i miss my father. in a quite simple, desperately childish way. i miss him with a guilt so vivid it cries of blood. and still i will not forgive him, nor he me. such is family. we go on wanting.

i seclude myself habitually. i am dutiful to my solitude. i fear loneliness is all i’m capable of. like a nun god doesn’t believe in; like a rabid dog: an unholy beast.

wringing my hands, tears streaming down my face, eyes swollen, nose running, breath unsteady, laboured: “i never did anything deeply unforgivable and i am not fundamentally evil and i am loved on this earth.”

she’s a sharp spring of stinging cold light i step into, waist deep, wading in spilled love.

this tender depth of feeling is ripe and raw like split knuckles weeping blood, spilling love, fresh and fragile like fruit as it breaks and bleeds under teeth.

a mouse in a house is a beast of burden. such a small, breakable thing - horrifying. the terror in its blind eyes glistening up at me. its pitiful hands flailing for love, aching with cold and wild desperation. its ears strained and stiff with its whining, whimpering, wailing need. its tail dangling, trailing terrible love behind the dying thing. it’s seeped of life and longing, sweet and soft with rot.