I Write Sins Not Tragedies*


There is no God                                             Not in any of the holes.                                 He has filled my body with;                   Holes that are brimming full-                     But I don’t feel full no more.                     Only empty.

Hollow–                                                               as he- they’re all he- batters inside searching for a part of me that existed before him.

Hollow–                                                               as the room I’m kept in.                                   It would swallow me whole                           if it could.

Hollow–                                                               as the sky behind my eyelids.             Dreamless.                                           Sleepless.

There is no God                                       ripping out of pillars or walls or space.   Myths remain myths remain myths,             I suppose.

If mama was here- she’d say,                   “God has kept you alive, honey.”               She isn’t here though,                               when they come ramming through         and away what I imagine                                 is the night.                                                     No windows in the hollow.

I remember the fear                                         I remember the stench                             Sweat and smoke and filth and garage oils like someone I once remembered but forgot.                                                                   I remember to feel through                     what I remember of the start.

Marlboro ashes and tattered skin shedding New bruises every Saturday aren’t conducive to the ‘senses thing’                         I suppose.


My eyes open to sunlight on them.         Sunlight.                                                           My eyes open to windows, painted walls, bookshelves, a door-                                  open.                                                        Rushing out to weary faces and wearier walls,                                                                      I let this new yet old silence soak me.

Silence. Silent. Sob.                                             I was unmade on my knees.                             I am reborn on my knees.                           My eyes search for my mama.                         If there is a God, I know I’ll find him           in her arms.

I smell him before I see him.                   Sweat and smoke and filth and garage oils. My dad slips his arms                             around me before he whispers                     in my ear,                                                           “I Write Sins Not Tragedies”.

*The title of this piece has been taken from 2005 song having the same name written by the band Panic! At The Disco for their album A Fever You Can’t Sweat Out.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s