Wild Horses

Yes, you can surely look the other way.

You can continue to gatekeep affection,

smashing lightbulbs into a billion little glass pieces 

and inhaling them on a tiny, useless lung-shaped floor,

but I always know better.

I have sat among the deities, gossiped with the Lord

and have showed them both my handiwork in-person–

all enthusiastically approved

and yet, you want to play games.

Go move a pawn.

Go crown a queen.

Once when I was younger, the Lord prompted me

to create a dazzling poem set to music.

I declined, fearful of judgement from the world below.

I was never punished, never scolded,

but I sat in regret at my own cowardice, my sick selfishness.

Your eyes don’t have to remain downcast, either.

Your size 8 footprints leave signs of failure after slog,

stamped in the summer mud. Wild horses.

Yes, I knew you were trying this whole damn time. 

But try harder,

because I love you like a knife.