The addicts that find me-
In the peace of the morning,
bathing in a soft white light.
Between the purity and the devotion to what is holy.
I am nun like in December-and happy here alone.
The Holy Spirit flows from my veins
and he calls it magic.
The high of the supernatural fuels his pursuit of me.
He speaks of my spirit and he's manic
with tunnel vision he wants it
the addict is angry
Can't steal it
can't reach it
can't buy it off the street
Thinks I'm keeping secrets.
i speak of Jesus and he turns violent.
And I'm covered in black fabric
in a forest like always/
Solitude in Tennessee
He calls me his future.
I watch his mouth move and I keep thinking...
"how insane!"
Addicted to the second hand smoke of
the Holy Ghost
He is relentless,
stubborn
static
and shifty
with
still born stories of hope.
He speaks to me with
Strange fantasies
laced in hate
Paints me a picture of the future
a future we can’t hold.
Calls me weeping says it's just withdrawals
says he barley creates anymore
says the lack of me is cruelty
He needs the clouds
to think
to feel alive
to come close to peace
to sleep
The addict seeks me like an orphaned wolf-
He howls my name each night
in the corners of this town
that neither of us claim
The wolf is busy:
curating heartbreak
calling it fate.
Insane.
