I remember when I was ten,
I invented my own religion.
It existed only in the dead of night,
when trees looked like witches against the sky
I had no church but a temple of pillows and curdled milk blankets.
I was not grateful but hungry,
devouring day and night with flames.
I would creep like an animal,
leaving stains on rugs
and I hid your shoes beanth the stairs
because my chest was heavy and empty.
I would look outside,
back then I could see for miles with my yellow eyes
but there was nothing and I’d ask
but there was still nothing,
just trees and boxes and tricks and nothing.