in my half-starved mind i imagine a danglinggolden cross about your neck that burns prayers into my collar bone, oh godoh god oh god oh godohgodohpleasein the morning i hide your mother's bible and try to tell you about renewal and purity and rebirth.
you just ask me if i've remembered to take my birth-control pills.i wanted to go without eating for forty days, but you take one look at my pale, nakedlegs and say, "honestly, if they wereany skinnier i would be grossed out."
here i am swallowing the world whole,all of its glory and chocolate rabbits and virgin mary statues and dirtied snow and azealea bushes. there is no confession booth left to save my soul except poetry, and as far as i know it cannot keep me from hell.
i ask you what the holy week is, and what each day signifies, but you are unsure.
i spend ash wednesday celebratingbeing alive, and wake up thursdaythinking maybe i've gotten it all wrong.
-i'm not giving up any one thing for lent.i'm just giving up.