I Looked for God (12/11/13)

One day I thought I would lose my faith
So I went looking for God.
Sitting on a pew in that empty church
Five hours came and went
I left without a change.

Didn’t do much to cry to a priest
Who told me that God works in ways
That I could not possibly understand.

Mary was younger than me
And she had purpose.
I have nothing.
I only have whispers of a dream.

I read the book again
Pored over the pages till my eyes were sore
I didn’t find the answer there.

I asked for an answer
I received nothing.
I stopped looking for God.
He wasn’t there.

A week, gone. I felt alone
And locked myself away
Took off the cross from round my neck
And hid it right away.

And then He came.

A photograph.
A happy pair.
I saw the way she looked at her
And I knew God was there.

A simple kiss
A tiny smile
A joyful tear
An answered prayer

I went looking for God in every place
But He was always here.

 

A Letter to You (11/11/13)

To You

I might be confusing sometimes, and it’s OK to think that. Sometimes I say nothing to you for weeks on end because I’m so scared that I’m clinging too much to you, and sometimes I think that I talk too much so I try and shut myself up. I might stare at your face while you’re talking and not hear a word, but I still love what you say, but I don’t get much opportunity to appreciate the way your mouth moves while you’re talking and how your eyes are the only ones that I want to see the darkest parts of me. If I laugh too hard, it’s because I love you, and if I walk home crying it’s because some things are too perfect for me to hold and you are one of them. I pull at my hair when I ask you a question and it’s because I’m terrified, so terrified, that you will never love me in the way I love you, and I search in the darkest corners of my brain to find a new Muse but I never will. I’ll type until my fingers bleed and I’ll smile until my cheeks break with the strain and I’ll love you until my light goes out. If I could press my lips to yours, I would, and if I could touch your hand with mine, I would. I will glance at you over the rim of my cup and wish desperately that you were mine, and you will laugh and talk on, sweetly oblivious as you always are. I will hear myself in the ‘I love you’ but you will not be there in the ‘I know’, though I wish you were. You may have been made by God’s hand but He did not make you for me, you are the expensive model that I can only gaze upon and wonder what it would be like to touch. He meant to put love for you in another girl, all of it in another girl, and some fell over the other girls and it trickled into the hearts of me and her, and we will go on wishing for you because God willed you for another person. Maybe one day I’ll find someone better than you, but I don’t want to know him because I want to know you. I will carve my heart into a beautiful masterpiece and hand it to you, but you will not take it, and gently tell me that you appreciate the gesture. You might break my heart but you’ll be blindfolded, and you’ll think you’re mending me when you’re only making the cracks run deeper. 

From Me

The Third Person (10/11/2013

She tells her that she loves him.

She doesn’t move
But her heart falls to the floor
And she watches it judder to a halt.

Force a smile
So much sympathy.
“It sucks when they don’t like you back!”
Doesn’t she know.

Does she pursue?
Does she dare?
Can she hurt her?

If only she could let go
She would help her.
But she can’t.
And she won’t.
And she’ll never tell.

Product of Insomnia (5/11/13)

I dream of getting lost with you. I paint the walls of my mind with pictures of us, but they fade and blur, the paint smudged and streaked. Maybe someday we’ll sit on the kitchen floor and eat ice-cream straight out of the carton. Maybe I’ll lose myself in the hidden parts of you, and every time I breathe I’ll inhale the essence of what we are. What if we laid on the bed fully clothed while the rain poured down outside, and we said nothing because nothing needed saying, and I bit my nails down to the quick the night before in mad excitement at the thought of seeing your face again. I could make the tea black and clasp the mug while you read me a stupid story that you found the other day and I’ll play music on the stereo, including that song that always reminded me of you but of course I’d never tell you that. The movies lie, they say that you’ll just know when I’m dying inside and hiding it with a smile, but you won’t, though you’ll always be there and I’ll mend myself while you sleep next to me. I’ll touch your hair while we watch that TV show that makes you laugh and maybe, just maybe, you’ll take my hand in yours.