The city's boiling to death in your kitchen,

the stove spilling over with noise, the world

cracking and splitting open over the heat.

Memories curl inside you, growing beneath your

ribs, in the spaces between half-formed words,

stretched thin like skin that forgot its shape.

The couch smells of god, your skin like holy fire,

the same old rage gets spit out from our eyes.

The sap green of your eyes thickens into silence,

hot pink lips moving in dead spaces. We kiss, once,

twice, like it's a ritual, something to hold the walls up.

There's a wound inside me, wide awake,

its soft edges still bleeding under the surface.

Warm salt water of sorrow fills my lungs. It

drowns and it stings, but I stay afloat, somehow.

When your mouth moves to my collarbone, I

see the church instead of white stars. Its bones

of stone and silence, hollow but holding my sins.

Our shadows fall on that of the cross, waiting

for forgiveness that will never come.

But the blood is spilling on the carpet now,

growing into the only secret we can't clean.

It's not ours anymore, it's never been.

Skies fold above us;

black lines, too many skies,

we're drowning in ceilings we forgot to paint.

And the city's still boiling in the kitchen,

screaming beneath the lid,

dying where it stands.

- god doesn't live here anymore, but we still smell him.

* * *

A/N: Just curious-what's everyone reading these days?