Weakened limbs dangle haphazardly to the side.
What is left
of me

here

weathering
my storm.

I have to excuse myself for every transgression against the human race in order to return to the scene with a clean slate. Not exactly a return to innocence, as it only affords me the opportunity to experience guilt freshly. The old guilt weighs too heavily and shelters stones from rocking home. The horror of new guilt exploding in the stomach that smothers the breath and reminds you that you're alive instead of floating in the murk.

If I had to tell you anything, I'd probably wait too long to part my lips.

It is probably worth noting that being loved is different than being loveable. There doesn't have to be an exchange. There is no currency for love. The evening can catch on fire for a variety of reasons, and we can watch it burn without a thought of ourselves. The stars can learn to loathe themselves silently.

All attempts at finding refuge are regretful. Shameful ministerial whispers from the sacrosanct altars rise to the rafters. They tell you to look away. Brothers and sisters, together. They tell you to look away.

The roaring din clammors 'til midnight like a rising sun. At times, I am sure I hear my voice echoing within its midst. But at some point, I just can take it no longer, and completely stop listening and look out the window. I hear with my eyes and the dark sky, cratered, craddling itself somehow relaxes me. Lulls me to sleep with a morose lullaby.