Forgive me, father, for I have skinned my knees pleading to the deities on street corners and I’ve broken my smile by shining it in unforgiving spaces. I now speak in tongues through the gaps in my teeth and leave spit soaked footprints in the sand that used to be a beach. I’m an hourglass in a sundial climate. My stopwatch keeps going and my snow globe is melting like my life was a Dali painting. My doctor prescribes bed rest. My mother gives me orange juice. I’ve swallowed so many colors I’m shitting out rainbows but I’ve gambled away all my gold coins on slow horses named after princesses.
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