I’ve been bleeding Christ’s blood—
bright, red, healthy—
for a couple of days now.
Then why do I feel so bad?
A priest sprinkles my tears,
fresh, onto a baby’s head.
You’re forgiven now, son.
Go ahead—move on.
A fish tank full of zebrafish
gurgles as a little girl dreams
of becoming a marine biologist.
She’ll be landlocked for life.
I’m thirsty—been suckling dry
digital teats, scrolling through women
like a Rolodex. Too polished,
too shiny to be real.
I’m hungry for that emptiness—
a space, a foxhole, a womb.
Curl up and rest awhile;
sleep inside me.
Sometimes I’d like to try
to burn down this house,
but I wouldn’t be successful
at doing it or getting away with it.
So I stay here another night.
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