On my knees

By the way, honeysuckle, I am sick, sick in a way you can't fix.

I kneel each night and pray until my knees start bleeding, like there's a gun at my head,

that's in the hands of a man with a beating heart and a sound mind. My whole body is rotten, I can feel it, my skin withering away, my bones crused and grinded into nonexistence.

But this is my body and I live in it and there's nothing I can do to make this any better.

May the God that stands before me stay there. Don't move, my little dove, don't come near.

Don't wrap your slim fingers around my shoulders, don't point your doey eyes at me, it's all fine. 

I made this hell for myself and I wish to live in it and there's nothing I can do to make this any better.

I sleep through the days and listen through the nights.

The silence is unbearable but I wish to live in it.

My room is black and I can't see the sweat dripping down my face, I may not be even living right now and it's fine. It's all fine.

I stay in the burning house in the burning kitchen like it's fine, I can take the heat. But it starts getting unbearable and for the first time I think I may just feel something. But then it's pitch black again and I am alone in my room, on my knees, praying.