god cuts you to the bone. "ouch," you tell him. his eyes lift like christmas lights. he loves you like this. "you're a baby," he tells you. he’s the crush of your lungs in on themselves. the next life unveils itself, renting open like rice fields, like lemon rinds, through him. "ouch," you repeat

god loves losers. god loves the failure to thrive, the wrist checks, the negelcted, the thin, the risky. he is tiered, he is rooting for the least of you. his charmers he lifts from nothingness; his kings turn out fruitless. he loves the fruitlessness. he licks wounds, he's into that. he recalls the forgotten. he's telling his refugees to garden in foreign kingdoms. he's telling his prophets to tie themselves in rope and remain on the ground. this god is the god of losers, lovingly, thrummingly, nostalgic like that

did mitski ever find out what to do after you've been big and small and big and small again and still nobody wants you