Shrine

Lately, 

I've been a harlot, 

talking reason to 

hallways of gold paint 

and monkey statues. 

I am reserved among sirens

and clumsy with petals

in my bitterness. 

Long hair, cuffed pants. 

Short hair, thigh highs. 

    He sells pot,
    I'm a road slut. 

I want to impress on you 

my studded infancy

til your earlobes bruise 

and tearfully 

you turn to me, parched

and needing more,

Family is for watching my

things when I have to poop. 

Community is for assigning roles

to feed each other. 

Music is for proposing answers 

to unasked quesitons. 

God is for hovering, unsure. 

  Mom doubts us. 

    Dad condemns. 

Children: all of us,

awaiting the perfect opportunity. 

our mouths half-open

allowing slack, convictions 

slide in and out 

of the corners
of our lips. 

We haven't yet learned to 

clench while we watch. 

With these figure heads, I'll spend 

my whole life waiting on patience

to settle in. I'll waste this page 

and the last and each

to follow, scratching off all the reasons 

I don't deserve to wield ink.