Faith

It is 4am,

and once again,

you are camped out,

on the bathroom floor,

as I educate the bubbles

about all that bothers me.

My hand is held,

as I hold your attention,

with my endless,

anxious monologues.

Hoping aloud,

that my autopsy pics,

will be aesthetically pleasing,

made for morbid moodboards,

in soft sepia shades,

played on YouTube,

with a content warning,

and a cool soundtrack.

I hope my mother doesn’t cry,

much,

when I am not around to disappoint her.

I have lived in her eyes,

running away in the rushing rivers,

that leave her red and despondent.

I ask,

aloud,

and shaking,

if you enjoy being in love with a dying girl.

My hand is held,

as is my breath,

and you,

a non believer,

are next to me,

on your knees,

praying to a Goddess who doesn’t know how to be worshipped.

Suddenly,

I feel I could fight death,

for the rest of my life.

Sincerely, Jennifer x