***

I avoid churches like the plague.

It’s not that I think

I’d combust upon entry;

it’s more that,

with every step,

I’d hear the echo of my presence

ring hollow down the aisles—

***

#poetry

#atheism

#agnosticism

#religion

#church

#excatholic

She drank one, then another, then a third as though if she stopped she would choke on the very air she breathed. She had a thirst like a flower in a drought, inhaling any drop of drink like it might be her last. Like if she didn't drink her stomach would ache and crack with a stiff dryness. like her throat would yearn like the body for a lover. Unsatieted until her thirst is quenched.

misty eyes and heavy sighs

sorrow to open the skies

head in hands, a woman cries

drawn and drained by endless lies

.... .. .....

#poetry

#micropoetry

When I was growing up, I always wanted to be an author. Being published was something I thought was so almost unattainably attractive. I wrote stories when I was a kid and was praised for my writing ability. English classes in high school were always my favorite, and editing friends’ papers is something I still enjoy doing. Reading was a hobby I grew up with. My friends were all nerds like me who read all the time, and I look back on those times sentimentally. However as time went on, I found myself reading less and less. The required summer reading books became a drag and I always procrastinated when it came time to read them. Textbooks became a nuisance to read in college and my attention span dwindled over time. I even started to hate writing because all I was writing were essays about topics I didn’t care about.

I was talking to my boyfriend about building my confidence today, because in my long time of knowing him, I’ve only increased my confidence gradually. Reflecting on his self-confidence journey, he told me that he was told to find something he liked doing and was good at. He explained that that advice helped him become the confident person he is today, and that I should find a hobby that I’m good at.

I looked at examples of hobbies to partake in, and nothing really struck me. But then I remembered- words have always fascinated me. I decided I should try writing again.

i’m done emptying myself

in hopes of filling someone else up

with my love and passion.

only to be left

empty and alone

again and again.

/enna.paz

The wind returned. Growing stronger and bolder, the shadows began to dance, entwining themselves in the back and forth of the darkness in Eski’s eyes, the movements stretching to rip further strands of shadow from the edges of his consciousness, pulling them in to join the ecstasy; pulling him in to join the ecstacy.

Eski did not enter as the shadows did, he was far to experienced for timidity. Throwing himself like a drunk side to side, Eski pierced with talons of steel the solemn cloth on either side, an inadequate shield to slow the storm. He boiled about in the sea of people, leaving corpses of salt behind. Red strewn about, mingling with inadequate hosts that had once held it captive.

Please.

A single voice; a plea, joining the dance. Not a plea for mercy, a lie long forgotten, but for life. A simple song for life.

Please, more.

Joining the dance; the wind; the waves, the melody became a harmony; a single song now carried by two voices joined. Eski fell into step with the voices, the dancers, the Song. The sea of bodies pressed against him, straining to break him. Twisting about, Eski mirrored the shadows in his eyes, letting the wind blow him as it would. No longer utilizing talons of steel, he swept through the sea amid a boat of desecration, breaking down the walls of flesh and folly, and letting free the life inside.

Please. Please. More. Please.

And Eski gave them more. He gave them all. He gave until there was nothing left to give. Nothing but a single figure, standing tall amidst the remains of captivity. And Eski stopped.

And the wind blew.

The wind blew and raged and fought. The shadows danced. The voices sang. But they went unheard. The dancers unseen. The wind unfelt. And Eski waited. The eye of the hurricane, and he just watched the single figure. The figure watched him, motionless. Oblivious to the storm around. Like a leaf, the last one still on the tree at winter, the figure turned, and took in the world around him. A winter of red. Blood on snow. Blood on ice. Blood on steel.

Please. More. Just one more.

And the wind blew.

The figure did not see the blade; a talon of steel. He did not see the shadows in Eski’s eyes. He did not hear the song. He did not feel the wind. The soft wind in his chest, releasing the life captive inside. Letting the life come forth into the shadow, reflected in Eski’s eyes; Eski’s darkened eyes.

Thank You

Eski was done. The ocean was gone; the leaf had fallen; the winter had come. And the shadows came forth, like paint spilled in water, they gained color; they gained life.

And the blood on the snow disappeared.

Thank You.

And the shadows faded, now red, brimming with life; hopes; dreams.

Thank You.

And the last shadow disappeared.

And the wind did not blow.

The canary died. There was running and screaming and light and dark. But before the bird died there was work. There was my father covered in soot. There was my father with lungs black with smoke. Lungs so caked with coal dust that with the right amount of pressure they’d turn precious and glittering. Instead, abused and worked to their limit. Unable to fill fully. Over worked and underpaid. There was my father with the bird and a light. His boots and a pick. There was the bird golden and slight. A beacon underground. There was my father and a bird and their last, gasping breaths buried underground. Lost between the light and the dark.

\_{••}_/

| M |

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