At some point, you submit. If it is happening this way, then it is on purpose, there was never any other order of things. I don’t know what this is, just what it isn’t, and primarily, this is not an accident. I know that is hard to read. I’ve lost people. I’ve failed at things. I know you may have told yourself it was a deviation from the plan, but it wasn’t. Give to Caesar what is Caesar’s, and God what is God’s. And blame for the things we do to one another falls in no way on the divine. Though the humans who use them would have you believe it’s out of their hands, all weapons are shaped for them. A thousand ways to feel washed clean. One form of filth.
The only sin is born in a decision you know you shouldn’t make as you make it. That’s it.
It has always been up to you. No matter how fervently you deny it.
Maybe God made a lumpy rock with saltwater licking shorelines. But it did not invent America. Or life. Or humans. Or the disgusting way a millipede’s legs all work together in waves.
Maybe God invented the perfect atom, brick, building block, with just enough consciousness written within, that this brick is one part mason, one part chemist, one part pragmatic technician, one part way back in the rear, engineer. Brick all the same.
Which would mean we truly own our choices.
Our hardfought, often unnested consequences.
I know this hurts. But we are doing this to ourselves.
I blame God for creating potential.
But this, reality, all of this.
This is on us.
Use caution putting things away, because that is where they stay. For as long as you don’t mind not seeing them. All sorts of things. Spices printed with dates like two thousand and fourteen. Half written journals and perfectly full ink pens and highlighters gone dry left so long in the dark. Dust in caked layers and rust inundating needle nose pliers and hair off so many animals. Life is not a house. Life is not a closet. We built these places, and tuck ourselves in. Tidied up. Straightened out. Organized lives from so many broken pieces of mine. Like puzzles. And you take a puzzle out of the box to put it together. The picture doesn’t fit inside its own container. Though it is much more secure in there.
Steel drains and matted hair. The windows where we sat and stared. The doorways we broke through to get somewhere. Be careful. Confusing life with the packages we put it in. Use caution. Putting anything out of sight, and subsequently, mind. Because it will become something in isolation that it was not before. Love makes a great meal. But it doesn’t store. At least not well. Not in the boxes where we dwell. Where we hide. And like scared children, keep ourselves hidden. Calling it a living room when it is more of a tomb until doors are broken open and windows crack and wind blows curtains back and light sweeps carpet and life steps over thresholds carrying smell and pollen and sound like a smiling bride braced in bent arms.
Get life all cleaned up, and out, and put away, and straightened, and immaculate, and categorized and sanitized and ornately adorned and closed windows and locked doors. So that at our own discretion, we can choose it. Have it eternally, as long as we don’t mess up and use it. Risked. And there is no insurance to safeguard against this. But I can tell you, antiquity, is where things go to die. Be careful putting away anything you love. Because it will stay put up. While you, and so many years, pass by.
You used that word. You posted as many pictures as you could.
You wrote impotent love songs and tricked innocent people to play along.
But worse. You used that word. Love.
And whether it came from your heart or rolled off your tongue,
I want to cut it out of you. I want it gone.
I never want to hear it used again.
And it might be sin. But it is also true.
I would take on hell to take on you.
I need the world to know who and what and how you are.
Though only you will ever know why. Well. You and I.
See I saw your sad, small-peckered heart.
I heard your flaccid, trickle-down art.
I played my part. Because I didn’t know.
I didn’t know you could caress a neck you also choke.
I didn’t see callused fingered fists leave dark blue weakness
swollen beneath her eyes. None of us wanted to realize.
Not even you. Not even you. Yet you used that word. Love.
And whether it came from your heart, or rolled off your tongue,
I want it gone. Whatever it was.
I need the whole world to know your definition of love.
And if I’m being true, I would like to take that definition,
and try it out on you.