fear swirls within two whirpools of striking sapphire like misty clouds melded with oceans in photographs of Earth from outer space.

maybe, maybe if he screamed loud enough, maybe if he cried enough, if Dick tore out his heart and offered it, the blood dripping from his hands as he held aloft the sacrificial lamb of his innocence, they would hear him. maybe God would take pity on the grief of his son.

you couldn't tell a bullet from your father the same way you couldn't tell your hand from a shovel.

he imagined the light seeping into his skin, into his bones, into the cracks of his soul until he could be made whole again—a boy of sunlight.

my boy, born a savior: sovereign, sanctified.

i wonder what abel thought when he caught sight of his brother's raised fist. if he hated.

an embrace was not meant to be something to make me wince or make me numb, but a pair of arms—no matter how frozen—is better than none at all.

he'd tell me that he loved me, and then he'd take whatever he was smoking that Sunday afternoon and get to exorcising.

the sins of your father mix with the love of your mother under your knees, and you promised yourself that you wouldn't cry.

if it is human to hate my brother, what kind of animal am i?

faith breeds folly, and i did not know how to tell you. i did not know how to disappoint you without destroying you.

there is little suffering in slaughter. he will make us live.

if i don't have forgiveness, there is nothing left for me to offer worth taking.

blessed am i and the fruit of my womb, for what mother would rather bear a sinner?

Lord, watch my fist. Lord, watch another man fall.

he'd tell me that he loved me, and then he'd take whatever he was smoking that Sunday afternoon and get to exorcising.

the condemning mark burns where it is carved into my skin, but refuses to melt.

my rage is a diamond stalactite—sharp, clear, reflective. tough to break.

what do you douse a scorched child in when water has already eradicated his flames?

i would've followed you anywhere, and i did. straight into your flourishing field—straight into the desolate bed you made for me beneath it.