scorpio

sometimes i dream about being asked to write a sermon. sometimes i dream about trees in chains. all of the scorpios i’ve touched have left shrapnel behind, and all the pieces of childhood i try to swallow come right back up. if i saw you in a supermarket i would walk the other way. isn’t that funny?

i wish we could be kids together still, playing with knives and daisies. i use the copy and paste button now in the red-dark of my room collaging the shit together, like i forgive you, even if you never will. i’ll ruin my paper-mache laptop. i’ve always tried too hard to make it stick. i’d share a cigarette with you if you asked, but i know you won't.

someone told me once that there was a haunted tree out back in the field, past the bones of the one-room schoolhouse. if any of this sounds familiar, know it’s why i built a mythos to begin with. all of our classrooms were named after trees, do you remember? we made nettle tea and i spilt all of the glitter.

about the old gnarled stump, i think they were spreading lies. i don’t think a tree can be haunted. if anyone haunts that place, it’s me. that was the year i first wore a hoodie in the summer. when i dream about writing sermons,

it feels like a reminder from god of all of the opportunities i’ve had to say something i really mean. all of my most toxic friendships have been with people too similar to me. all of my worst misunderstandings have come from overexplanation.

i think the only time i’ve ever been honest was when i broke down at the pulpit — all of the most humiliating moments of my life have involved crying in public. there’s something delicious about the salt, though. i told you i grew out of it and i didn’t.