a letter to my sister

God lusts you. can't live without you. regrets ever letting you go. but hasn't the decency to admit His(Her) mistake and take you back. so sneaks in at night and borrows one of your lungs. when you wake in the morning you gasp for air and clutch your chest. and when we look out your window we see a balloon the shape of a lung drifting into the sky with a string attached. and God now gets half of every breath your inexhale. from beneath the ground, puts His heavy arm around your neck, strong and persistent as gravity and won't take it away. rubs your back like a cat for so long it eventually loses its shape. borrows that too, uses it to prop up an angel's dress He's saving for you. of course they open you twice trying to replace the damn thing. in the end a titanium pole. i've never admitted it, but reminds me of an extension bat this kid brought to school once to scare us with. and now this. there goes life again, hacking at you. a little black spot on your heel. no doubt, a kiss. just a reminder. and when God touches you, you turn black like 3am and your world caves in, like drowning in the filth of mortality, drowning in debts or adultery or emphysema or all the other pleasures God uses to remind us he exists. drown in it, it's like heaven bores a hole, and when we succumb, a twig made of light pokes around the bucket and lifts out a limp wilted saturated cloth, and pulls out its nucleus, a daffodil petal or a flint of limestone and out of that awakens a long slept, long suffered angel back into where have you been my love? (while the rest of us are stuck with the cloth. which we dry. cover in a shroud and wash and cry and put in a special delicate box we hate and can't stand the sight of and just to think of gives me the goosebumps while we cuss and swear ever knowing language to know the words 'sickness', or 'death', or 'it's for the best'.

but He likes you my dear, the timeless old F*cker. i know mom would trade, i'd trade, i'd trade anything. all my friends, all of them, each and everyone, never speak to another soul (for once i'm not exaggerating) if you could have a friend. i'd give you whatever you needed, whatever you needed to fill up all the empty holes, the... hollow spaces full of shadows. kidney. lung. the leg that doesn't bend. the blind spot in the middle of your left, crooked eye. the scalp that peels. the urinary tract infections. mostly, the loneliness. i'd cut it out all out and fill my holes with cotton-balls and scrunched up newspaper and live happily as a taxidermal anomaly if you could have a week as a butterfly. if you could drift out of the soil you're rooted to. if you could walk upright and have neurons enough to carry on a decent conversation and shower yourself in less than 90 minutes.

i hate, and wish death on every object that fails to smile at you. (but what good does that do you?)

and. whenever we lose grip of a balloon, or open the to-go order to see they forget a cheeseburger and a kidney, or when gravity pulls your spine into the ground till its bent like a car-accident front-bumper, what do we do? we pray to the Bastard. what else can you do?

are the black spots in the shapes of kisses?

call me when you know something.

(such a pathetic ending)