Bring your deflated saints to my front porch. Our children are hungry and I can’t sew myself to you when my hands need to hide my face from the dirt and the rain. Every ceaseless clock devours mercy, your fingers are my past haunt

There are sunsets in whispers, secrets behind our fingers
But you’ll never know. You’ll never know. I woke up this morning
Breathing in an ocean through our garden. Through our garden.
We’re fading like paintings, left out in the rain.
Our colors are worn, the night won’t breathe in with me.
Our sleep is sickness, but you’ll never know.

Can you find gospel in this torn throat of mine? I still have your words buried in my palms with the broken glass like the notes you left between the pages of a book, they keep me honest and if I’m honest I drink more than not anymore with mouthfuls of broken twigs beneath my tongue, draining rivers and building dams to stifle every secret I could offer up. Because I saw you looking at me from across the trees, but you weren’t close enough so I ignored you and I’m so sorry I ignored you.

I fed my hands to the ruins of a church
Made me promise not to speak again
Lions grow dilapidations
There's a prison in my lungs