Book of Suburban

I never asked you
to pray for me
or share your definitions
of God;
didn’t ask to be
kept in your thoughts
because we’ve been there and
bought the sweater, learned that

I have no
moral center,

because I’m
sick and you’re my mirror,
each symptom
assumed,
annexed,
attuned to
you through fears
of contagion.

A monster in
your home walls don’t
foreshadow
playing favourites with
empty rooms.

A creature in
my mind I left amicable enough to make you believe its depths,

masking most of
sharp descents;

a maelstrom
of wasted breath that leaves nothing but hangovers of
faith to

hang onto,
and bruises where your arms were
whipped
with Bibles.

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