Cathedral

I want to call up every man that has ever loved me,
whose hands have felt like gravel on the folds of my skin,
but whose words have dripped like maple syrup
down the back of my throat that there's a reason
for the friction.

I want to tell them that my vessel is an idle cathedral
which my hands have built from the basement up,
and that the dust-caked pews have been vacant since you left.

I want to show them that my body is a graveyard
outside of hymn where good intentions and
bright lights go to die. And that

I'm full of death. I've built a mausoleum behind
my ribcage to hold everything, but it's
pressing into my lungs and I see stars.

But most importantly, I want to tell them it's okay.
I want to tell them that God hates me
And that's why my church is empty.