for the weak, for the conscious

love is sticky like honey at midnight with jesus lingering on my breath to usher in another night of sinning. for the weak it tears at their skin, shreds of flesh, bloody, messy. the moans of our ancestors watching with lopsided smiles and a tsk / for shame, for approval / i doubt it's the latter but my mother says god is real so i breathe in, once, twice and agree to bend the light of faith in my own direction with unbecoming church pews. love is sticky like honey at midnight when the buzzing of bees is lax and i can't remember my own name. for the conscious it's a skid across rock bottom that leaves you restless at best it's accepting leftovers as a full course meals it's the smoke from abandoned cigarettes clouding my peripheral vision. the sighs of my parents with heads tilted ever so slightly to the right and a heavy nod / for decadence, for looming death / everything has become an omen and hymns can't save me this time.

— FOR THE WEAK, FOR THE CONSCIOUS ( alternatively titled at midnight )