eyes

your eyes are hotter than hell,
brimstone and all.
they carve the words we weren't brave enough to say into the misshaped chest
my heart calls home.

I tried to use the smoke to hide my shame
but shame bled the most beautiful scarlet,
leaving a trail to memories still yearning for air under the surface.
drowning.

how the people turn to ghosts before my eyes,
the dreams that led to them are the only things keeping them from dying.
somewhere there is a grave dug just for you.
and we are all waiting for you to slip in,
so we can lock you on the inside.

because ghosts don't make it to God.

like Sunday, like rain.
because when he fills the pews we remember
beautiful things come in shades of grey.

even graves.

the rivers in your mouth are pouring out.
and the water takes the form of everything it surrounds.
disdain gets diluted that way.

yet i still beg the words to change.
drowning.

in the morning nothing will change,
and i'll slide out of security and into scars.
and gnarled fingers and broken life jackets.

i'm dead on the surface,
but i'm breathing underneath.
ghosts haven't taken me yet,
even though i still hear the whispers.

they've got me on the edge,
where you begin and i end.
and the ghosts fill the space on the outside.
and the scarlet trail runs to your eyes.

don't slip.