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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

a short vignette-like piece to express my whirlwind, damaged feelings for my ex girlfriend.

Submitted: June 21, 2018

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Submitted: June 21, 2018



Follow love like a religion.


Follow it in any way you deem yourself worthy, necessary, taught.

Walk with your own two feet even though you can’t stand, and follow a brightly-lit path covered in moss and stars, and when you hear your footsteps echoing back into the walls of the air around you, remember that that’s your own heartbeat.


We live like stars.


We live this life hot and fiery and when we get too old, we explode.

You think this is explosion? That this is truly what it means to release?

A whisper, a glance in the corner. No. We’re both wrong.

And the manifestation that we hold so dear to ourselves, the little temporary bit of ourselves that reassures us that we have control, even though its not real, is so precious to you and yet not to me.

But somewhere along the line, when I was the big dipper, and you were orion’s belt, so suddenly the buckle of your belt became the beginning of my handle. There is no me,

without you.


And its so difficult, so hard to hold my hands to pray when your hands are in the way


My prayers are new.


My prayers are desperate and loud and messy. My prayers seeks thy heavenly guidance and my prayers dont resonate in your religion. And it doesnt mean its wrong. But it means that when I am stripped of my faith, the fire in my chest goes cold. I’d rather poke the coal and have it stutter back to life than take a bucket of water and douse it.


We’re children.


And we’re so good at what we do. We’re so good at pushing and pulling, swinging back and forth and if we collide into each other, its impressive how many attempts we’ve both made to leave the playground. How do we teach these children to play nice and share toys?


I am tired.


Any religion states that when you are weary, lay your head down to rest. Your chest is my mecca, your hands my temple, the bell in the belltower sounds like your laughter and is colored the same wizened, dark, hard oak as your eyes . And i know that I must rise again for another day, follow faithfully, rough fingers intertwined like the branches of an elderly tree, trusting in the absolute divinity of a power that serves me, and serves me well. Even if i didnt get enough sleep. Even if i don’t understand.


Follow love like a religion.

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