as though i fought myself endlessly with no result.
later i walked to the church and cursed god in his own house,
called him an indian giver for bringing me flowers then yanking them away.
the salt on your skin, the garlic on your tongue
the sweat that stings and stifles, then pacifies my lips
of your silent, incredible taste
i long to stay there for a long, long time
till your eyes grow black and you want nothing more than to feast on me
and then i felt guilty.
i told god i was sorry for being such an asshole, a spoiled, selfish asshole.
especially when the old lady nearby is silently pleading for her cancer-ridden husband, or the family needing the roof that doesn't leak. these things matter, why should i?
but life is so much better with flowers. perhaps god understands the things i can't