you wear turtlenecks like they've gone out of style
to cover up the bite marks on your neck - blueblack
they make you look like a whore but you don't care,
courage unravels itself as the stray bits of yarn catch onto
the clothesline.

they say he wasn't your lover or a brother but
a gift from god, and
maybe he is and you're not a whore just a saint,
church wednesday afternoons, alone in a pew the
father says "come closer" (he won't touch you this time,)

and you believe him because you were named after a saint
(even if you're not one really)
and the words are growing louder, pushing against your eyelids
and you try to say something, anything,
and they find the gun in your closet and ask for the bullet
but you've already
swallowed it.

and maybe you were condemned to hell before you were
born again but it doesn't matter.
there's notes stuck in your teeth of songs you used to sing about
blue eyes and stardust; and now there is no stardust and his eyes weren't
blue they were brown. your voice is cracked, no longer able to reach
the high notes to scream, his hands are
fingers fat
he is meat for dogs,
and you think you're dying, this is it, your fifteen seconds of fame is over,

and all you want to do is to run off the stage
but the lights are too blinding, too bright
and god leaves, sick of the show.

"there's a prayer with a face in mind as if they chose the slope of her nose they're gonna love her"
- jail by donovan woods