everything sad is coming untrue

The most astounding thing about Jesus is that he is brutally honest about his feelings yet absolutely submitted to the will of God.

In my defense, spring.

Of course it is happening inside your head, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?

I’d cut my soul into a million different pieces just to form a constellation to light your way home. I’d write love poems to the parts of yourself you can’t stand. I’d stand in the shadows of your heart and tell you I’m not afraid of your dark.

“If you are silent about your pain, they’ll kill you and say you enjoyed it.” -Zora Neale Hurston Zora, These days, if you were to let them see your pain they’d destroy you and say you deserved it. I’ve seen the rest of the world. They’re jackals. Everyone has more teeth than you and less blood. They want a smiling dinner, want the meat of you. They do not care about your grief. That’s for you to swallow. You have not been to this world lately. We keep rebirthing ourselves into the same old thing, broken and ugly. This summer, in the steam of Missouri, a man who looked like my brother killed a child and people are laughing. On the news, a woman like my sister clawed at his body, sifting the bullets for guilt. She blamed his blood for staining her hands. Mackenzie died that same August on the hottest day of the year. I found her body in the hallway, medicine was clutched in her hand like a rosary. We could smell her around the house for days and could not breathe for the grief. But no one laughed. No one snuck into our house and stole our sorrow for target practice, no one looked at our family, barely surviving the loss of her, and tried to tell us she never deserved our love in the first place. Which is to say there are things we share, Zora, and things we do not. We have both known grief and anger. We have both held the body of a woman we loved when that woman was no longer inside that body. You fought for that boy in Missouri, spoke loud even when they came for you with their teeth and their dinner plates. The first is a kind of mourning I understand, but the rest I don’t. I can’t. I never will. I don’t know how to speak to that, So I won’t speak anymore. But here are my hands. I see the blood.

i want you the way the cream wants the coffee, in small ways at first, hiding itself on the surface but followed by an explosion that pervades every bit with its billowing clouds of “THIS IS WHERE I FIT.”