what did you think       would satisfy you,  
           and did it even        come close?

     i wake up hungry         for something  
               i can’t      name.  
         it’s not food.  
         it’s not love.  
               but i look for both anyway.

    i open my phone  
             like a prayer.  
       i scroll until       the wanting quiets.  
            it never does.

       i eat when i’m full.  
              i speak when i’m tired.  
         i buy things i forget  
              right after opening.  

     i keep thinking the next thing  
                 will be the thing.  
          the final thing.  
                  the thing that sticks.  

      but nothing holds.  
         nothing stays.  
      it all goes soft  
             and slips through me.

       people tell me         i’m lucky.  
          but luck doesn’t fill  
                whatever this is.

     i want more hours,  
                but sleep makes me sick.  
      i want quiet,  
         but silence        scratches at me.

           i touch someone  
                   and already  
         want to be somewhere else.  

      i love them,  
             but my chest  
         still feels         too empty  
                  or        too full.  

     i ask myself why i’m like this  
           and the question echoes  
                back       as laughter.

       i think maybe          i want peace.  
             or maybe just  
                 a reason.

        i keep trying  
           to press pause  
                 on a life  
        that won’t stop        spinning.

     but i can’t stop reaching.  
            can’t stop needing  
                 even when  
         i have everything.

        is it always going  
                      to be like this?

     or will i wake up  
             one day  
                   and finally  
             feel like  
         i’ve had     enough?

the world hums in static.
your hands—are they yours?
does your voice sound the same to others as it does in your skull?
who told you that you are real, and why did you believe them?

breathe

the sun rises because it must.
because we expect it to.
because we have seen it do so before —
and so we trust the pattern.
but who winds the clock?
who decides the rhythm of the tide?
what if the moon is just pretending?

they told you:
gravity holds you down.
the past is unchangeable.
the body is the self.
(you nodded,
you swallowed,
you never checked the label)

breathe

your mind is a funhouse mirror,
stretching, warping, turning silhouettes into specters,
turning questions into monsters —
and we name them knowledge.

but if every fact was fed to you,
if every truth was a hand-me-down,
stitched together from dead men's words,
what have you ever known firsthand?

does fire burn if you don’t believe in it?

breathe

we talk in recycled language,
walk on secondhand roads,
dream in someone else’s vision.
but where does the script end?
where do you begin?

—if you peeled back the sky like wet paper,
would it bleed static or nothing at all?

what would you do with that kind of silence?

if love is a sin, let it burden me.
if love is a gift, let me cherish it.

who among you has never let
the blood dry on your hands?

              does the shepherd not  
                          break the lamb’s leg  
                                               so it will follow?

does the potter not
drown the clay
before shaping it?

  tell me,  
      is the lion wicked  
              for its teeth?  

     or the serpent  
                for its tongue?  

                                                      ­  if the temple is built
                                          on stolen stone,
              does the prayer still rise?

if the offering is paid for  
            in hunger,  
                    does the incense still please?  

tell me,
is the knife holy
if it never cuts?

           is the river good
    if it never drowns?

              was judas ******
              for thirty silver —
              or for the kiss?

was peter saved
for love —
or for fear?

   if i call you righteous,  
              will you thank me?

if i call you wicked,
will you deny me?

   if i tell you there is no difference,  

                    will you crucify me too?

automatic administering
of dense stereotypes -
the world is balanced
off of the practice of
       false sayings
        ostracizing
        disrespect
and yet, you deem
yourself a good person

i smiled when spoken to.  
         nodded at the right times.  
   dressed myself in fabric  
              heavy with approval,  
       let them rewrite my name  
                    in letters i could not read.  

   was this what they meant by righteousness?

           i stepped in line,  
             shoulder to shoulder,  
                  head to the ground,  
      voice swallowed whole.  

(do not stray.  
                 do not ask.  
                          do not falter.)  

   but when i prayed,  
             i found no voice.  
    when i knelt,  
                  i found no floor.  
    when i searched,  
                i found only mirrors,  
                           only echoes,  
                                      only dust.  

   was this what they meant by devotion?

         they said,  
  we will make you whole.
           we will scrape away the excess.
                   we will leave nothing but light.

   so i let them take,  
               let them pare me down,  
                         let them erase,  
                                   let them shape.  
(smaller,  
           softer,  
                      easier.)  

   but when i looked for myself,  
             i found nothing.  
   when i called my name,  
                         there was no answer.  
   when i reached out,  
                    my hands met air.  

was this what they meant by salvation?