I Don’t Forgive You

I don’t forgive you
because you taught me
forgiveness erases the past.
It makes everything right,
and if it’s not,
it’s the fault of the forgiver,
who then becomes unworthy
of giving or receiving
forgiveness.

I don’t forgive you
because you taught me
forgiveness erases all boundaries
and if I want boundaries,
then I didn’t really forgive you,
and if I don’t forgive you,
then I don’t love God,
and if I don’t love God,
then I’m a sinner,
and if I am a sinner,
then I am just as wrong as you,
and therefore,
I am unworthy
of giving or receiving
forgiveness.

I don’t forgive you
because you don’t believe

you’ve done anything
that needs

forgiving.

Beautiful Crow

The sky is a polished blue,
wearing her softest white clouds.
She makes love to the sun in front of God
and everyone.
The earth blushes
in brilliant emerald breath
held beneath sapphire eyes,
and yet,
it is the lonely cawing crow
with whom I sympathize.
Its call,
ragged and worn,
lingers in the rhythm
beating inside my chest,
trying to make sense
of a world so big,
yet so small—
like humanity’s capacity for love
and its proclivity to hate.

The Science of Smaller Plates

—a commentary on evangelical diet culture and its assault on women.

Smaller plates
mean smaller meals.
Smaller meals
for that smaller you
because they told you
the best you,
the ideal you,
God’s design for you,
is a smaller,
lesser,
wasting away you.
A smaller you,
they say,
is a prettier you,
a more fuckable you,
and a more fuckable you
is the whole reason
God made you.
A holy,
fuckable,
baby making you
because if men
can control themselves
around you,
then you are failing
to honor the purpose
god gave you.

Your Father the Devil

Your god
points to a mass grave
where tangled Palestinian bodies
gasp for breath,
a gospel
of bullets and bloodshed
brought to bear
upon the least of these.
He is a white AR-15
mowing down children
in the second grade
while fucking little girls
of the same age—
a coward
accusing queer communities
of crimes committed
by his pastors and priests.
Your god
is an idol,
created in the likeness
of your hate.

But Grace

is a headstone
bearing your names,
buried in a landfill
for which
none of us
mourn.

An Ode to Garry

I pray you slip in the shower,
and no one finds you.
I pray you get drunk
and think,
‘I can make that jump.’
I pray you walk off into the sunset
and disappear,
forever.
I pray your birthdays
are full of empty chairs.
I pray you never receive a visit
from the ghosts of past, present, or
future Christmas.
I pray you choke on air
and die—
before deleting your browser history.
But most of all,
I pray
whatever happens,
happens quickly.

god

“You were so enamoured.
You couldn’t see it
for what it was.
Its brilliant light blinded you.
Convinced you that your hands
labored in love.

But look for yourself.

This blood,
these bodies,
your hands.
Your work.”

“But, sir,”
He spoke,
“how were we to know?
You saw it.
It’s power.
It’s beauty.
How were we to know
It wasn’t God?”

“See these bodies?
See this blood?”