i want to write the kind of short stories you read in english class that are on this weird level of surrealism that they still haunt you years down the road
Yet even now, says the Lord,
return to me with all your heart,
with fasting, with weeping, and with mourning;
rend your hearts and not your clothing.
Return to the Lord, your God,
for he is gracious and merciful,
slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love,
and relents from punishing.
Who knows whether he will not turn and relent,
and leave a blessing behind him,
a grain offering and a drink offering
for the Lord, your God?
Betraying someone who has been so good to us–who has loved us–is the most inexplicable sin, and yet it is one of the most common. How horrible it is. How low. And the way we turn against God in the other sins that we commit–God, who has given us so many gifts, so many blessings, starting with our very existence–surely is monstrous and surely makes us deserve to be in that frozen lake and worse. We all betray Christ, and for far less than 30 pieces of silver.
And yet, Jesus died for the disciples who denied and abandoned Him–then and now. Judas despaired and embraced death. But Peter was restored. And so are we. “This is my body given for you.” “This is my blood poured out for the remission of sins.”
“this is a suicide poem,”
makes a joke about it,
doesn’t hear the echo
of my rope harnesses
and leftover blood stains
that don’t wash out
of my family’s brainstems
he says, “don’t try this at home,
kids,” says robert frost is chronically
depressed, laughs because the bird that
lives inside him is still singing
but me, my canary is long dead
because each hollow cave between my ribs
has long been filled with poison
love, do not joke about depression:
we are all pretending we are
diamond mines where there is only
coal, we are pretending not to hear
our emptiness howl -
love, if you are a teacher,
be tender, be sweet
you never know how close to death
are the creatures in these seats.
April is the cruelest month, breeding
lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
memory and desire, stirring
dull roots with spring rain.