you make holy war.
by Aja-Monet
You who are beautiful,
are always
thinking.
There is no image
like the image
of a man that thinks.
The inside of my right thigh
will be where he writes his autobiography.
He was obsessed with leaving notes on my skin
and I will wake up some mornings,
walk past the bathroom-mirror
finding things like
"remember be"
drawn backwards across my collar bone.
This is to the man
that throws a penny
in the water fountain
and it throws it back,
the metaphor of your life.
It rained.
the day before you came,
the sky fell,
knocked over
dripping red from God's veins.
It smelled of all the wet things in New York City.
When I got home,
soaking and heavy,
it was silent--
The clock clapped
its hands.
I was hoping you'd bring me flowers
from the last grave
where you buried your mind.
I was hoping
you'd at least
remember to
kiss me
first.
You simply smiled
and shook your head
so that your hair,
silly and waving,
rambled over your forehead
like surrendering flags.
You make my blood self-conscious.
I can't look at you
without a little girl drowning in me,
without a self-righteous woman
running naked down my spine,
a dove flapping its wings
against the walls of my stomach,
I can't look at you without tripping over my eyelids.
You
hold a world
in those eyes of yours
When God made you,
he wrote his first suicide note,
folded it into your breath
and prayed that you'd be the death of Him.
You bring out the fear in me,
the fear of God's eyelash.
You give this living
a life of loving
left laying on the lie of this world,
leaning.
Thank you,
for being
so god damned
--inexplicable--
for making me think
about you so hard.
I went to church today,
and left two pills of Advil
for God
at the altar,
I said a prayer for Him,
that He will not turn to narcotics
or lonely nights of drinking wine
in His empty room,
or that a song won't play on the radio
or in heaven
and remind Him
of when He was younger
and it was okay--
it was okay,
to make mistakes.