god shaped hole

would it be something clouds could form?
swirls of fog and grief, weightless and fleeting
as soon as i put my hand through it.

my sister saw the Lord in cotton domes
overhead. no one believed her but still
with the sun in our eyes
we wanted to see.

You'd more likely be
a diamond-spot with a bullet punched through.
every pulse would mean a little less
of You.

i wanted You close, but how
could i bear it? Your love that feels
like two hands turned up, asking for more.

.teen.spirits.

It's somewhat depressing, sure, but in retrospect, living wasn't unlike high school. All of the awkwardness, the drama, the immature yelling, coming to a close at the end of the day with my eyes closed, laying my head down next to the few songs that bring me any consolation.

And we all talk about it as if it were the greatest years to ever squeak by on gymnasium sneakers, and maybe it was to some extent; you haven't done much since then other than sit in a revolving chair, swivelling from one day to the next.
But in all likelihood, it was as terrible for you as it was for me. The constant jeering, the pointlessness of standardized tests and the endless race to finally just be done with it all, to be able to climb out of your molting, pimply skin like a snake, so that you could continue slithering onwards towards a hole in the ground.

And every so often, just to give those paranormal kooks something to talk about, we show back up for a 5, 10, 100 year reunion, trying to discern which one of us has made something of herself as we waft through walls towards the punch bowl.