there is no room left for mercy

A.B. 25. She/They.

[stainedglasspoetry]

and every sentence you write starts with and. and every thought starts in the middle of itself. and you're two cigarettes in even though you're not sad, because you couldn't sleep and the constant ouroboros of your thoughts is exhausting. and you're twenty five years old and shouldn't you be better at this by now? and there's a space in you where god should be, but you've never really been one for faith. and there's a space in you where you should be, but you've never really been one for self. and wouldn't it be nice, just once, to write something with a beginning and an ending? and wouldn't it be nice to write something with a happily ever after? and wouldn't it and wouldn't it and wouldn't it and

[stainedglasspoetry]

is it quiet you want? the nausea rising like a tide, like an ocean, like an amp with the volume turned all the way up

[stainedglasspoetry]

pain is boring but so is my life. I have nothing interesting to write about.

[stainedglasspoetry]

what is time made of? the same thing as distance. it is simply a space to move through. if no one is standing in a room, does the room still exist? if the clocks do not tick does time still march onwards?

[stainedglasspoetry]

you resent the light for falling, resent gravity for holding you.

[stainedglasspoetry]

is the poem alive? it fights me at every turns, twists and writhes between my fingers in protest. be gentle the poem asks, and my hands only squeeze tighter

[stainedglasspoetry]

what is the point of the poem? words escape me; I am a dictionary of empty pages. I am an authors note that simply reads please

[stainedglasspoetry]

the poem draws blood, not like a scalpel in neat, precise lines, but like a punch to the face, splitting your lip against your own teeth

[stainedglasspoetry]

there are greater things in this world, I know. I am searching for the whale that will swallow me whole

[stainedglasspoetry]

little poet sitting at the windowsill, little poet putting the kettle on, little poet shivering in the cold

[stainedglasspoetry]

I dream of taking this body apart, breaking it into its smallest pieces and melting it down like scrap metal. what would it look like, to finally makes something useful out of myself?

[stainedglasspoetry]

I cannot reconcile what I am with what I am incapable of being. I want the smoke but flinch from the fire.

[stainedglasspoetry]

I want the light but resent the way it breaks through the darkness

[stainedglasspoetry]

I want to be good. I want to be good but I do not know how. I want to be faithful, I want a kind and loving God.

I want a kind and loving God but they say I am made in His image. the two cannot be reconciled.

[stainedglasspoetry]

I am the aggressor. I declare war on language and march into the battlefield of the poem.

[stainedglasspoetry]

Language fights me at every turn. I am in a knock down brawl with language and I am not on the winning side

[stainedglasspoetry]

I am obsessed with creating but I am not creative. I write poems, but I am not a poet.