I stopped talking to god
when I was 15
because your eyes seemed softer
than oak church pews.
fire-and-brimstone sermons left me numb but
your fingertips set fire to my skin.
god began to blur into four-dollar wine
and air saturated with your perfume;
I worship you with sleepy Sunday kisses
and these awful love poems.
in the fall you will meet a girl
minus my desperation
and we’ll fade like god did;
razorblades will rattle in my desk
and I will write worse poetry
because churches were just buildings
but you are more than a body.
when September arrives,
my voice will crack
while the rest of me hardens.
you’ll look at me
as I dissolve in your good-bye
because alone I am smeared ink and scar tissue,
and I will kneel again.