I have a certain set of beliefs

so that when people end up proving there’s no god,

I will still have something outside of me 

to latch onto - because the inside

is a dilapidated building; a dock 

to tie my boat of misery to at the end of the day.

I believe the kitchen is the most sacred place there is,

and when the morning sun touches my feet

as I stand there waiting for my tea,

I feel like I am almost redeemable - a fleeting thought,

it comes to me whenever the gentle sun does.

I pray in odd places, among crowds, so that when things go wrong,

I can just say, it was way too loud for god to hear me, it’s okay.

Silent prayers on train stations, in the bus, running down the stairs.

But I also speak to the world in the dead of the night,

laying on my side, the weight of my memories crushing me entirely.

I think of things I want, so desperately

that the knife in the kitchen beckons me,

telling me to cut out this horrid part of me 

and throw it in the dark blue night.

I think of your hands instead of mine and I dream your face up,

but my failure in making you smile in this dream is a message enough -

that I am trying too hard to fit you in my ill-fitting heart.

But please take it, sew it on your jacket, or fold it and forget about it,

I have no one else to give it to, and I am not enough

to be wanted. Mostly I am looking for ways 

to forgive myself, mostly I am asking the world 

this question - Am I good 

enough to be contained in you?

I hope the answer is yes, 

I hope it’s a maybe at least.