There were so many times I thought
I knew love, but it was more like:
Thank you God for the boy that stayed
long enough to get my name right
the sixth time.
Thank you God for the boy that writes letters
because he isn’t brave enough to love me
These swollen knees just bleed mercy
and I’ve been praying for love for a long time.
Speaking for God when he hasn’t answered
yet. That is my sin. I planted the hurt in me.
I called it love. I let it grow. I cut it down.
I’ve never been the most patient person.
I don’t know how to wait. I grab and grab
until my fingers snap.
I craved love to the extent that I couldn’t tell
it apart from anything else.
I wanted to be touched in ways
that felt like Sunday. I wanted to know
he’d keep coming back.
I wanted to be pressed into the way someone
presses a bible against their chest.
I wanted to be holy. I wanted someone
to kiss me and our mouths to turn red.
I wanted there to be another Sunday.
I wanted someone to hold me the way people
hold faith in their hearts.
I wanted to be solid. Unshakeable.
I wanted to be looked at the way someone
goes to church and looks at God
when they have nothing
when someone says “@ me next time” and the post was actually about them