as you force a still smoking candle down the neck of your birthday bottle
i know you didn't wish me

your 18th spelled out the Bible of your freedom in the language of midnight kisses
our only religion
and your Genesis was our Revelation
this Exodus is not freeing
it is a bloody tourniquet made with premature heartstrings that are old enough to know that they are breaking

is it my fault my pen still moves for you?
when we explored together my two greatest cracks
the stitches that came apart the nights we loved
and the open wound from which i pour poetry

is there a difference?
are they not twin ladders to God?
are you not, dressed in nothing but the secret-keeping night and silksmooth whispered goodbyes
wanting one last time
are you not my only salvation?

we did the perfect amputation
body from soul
mind from spirit
split so deep i am invisible to everyone who is not made of omnipotence
you are my only Messiah, are you not?

there is a girl you made woman who lies beneath white linen bedsheets in October
she lies like flame
like free and feared and f***ed up
like forever far from her Messiah
like frustration falling with her face in your hands
she lies like a cold fireplace
she lies like fire itself

and as you suffocate her in the stuffy showering of still smoking kisses
she knows
you didn't wish her

and she hopes that when you're running from her
laying still like time in your college lover's bedsheets
sweet wish cherries already popped
you know that she cried


and prayed


and wished


for you