I carpenter myself into metaphors
And that’s how I’ve known how to recover
Myself without bruising the mesh of my scars.

I’m a [ ], by which I mean, so many
Things are empty and I’m one of them.
One evening, I sauntered through my wanderlust

In search of a hand only to find boys
My story blindfolded in the abode of a
Priest for exorcism or baptism or whatever fits

The shape of their stories. I sit between
Them, wondering what would fit into the
Vessel of my body before fracas becomes water.

I wonder what would cleave the story of
My tongue from hurt and prayers, from [ ]
And memories. He says hold onto this gift &

Prayers cascade like dawn. I, in between
The shards of belief and disbelief. I swear,
There’s no metaphor for the discoloration of my

Leaky roof except scars waiting to be
Mended. Boys waiting to be healed, or not.
Is to say this race of salvation is when you open

Your mouth to heaven, hoping to return
Home with a mouthful of rosewater. But
In this story, I still await a rainfall.








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