every summer the reaper comes and asks me,
how would you like to die?

one day you’re going to look back and
think goddamn I wish I had that and

leaving the sinner’s song at the altar
it’s burning my tongue

men without god are like foxes, they say

I don’t like confrontation and I’ve been told to never question your will, but

suck
squeeze
bang
blow

all the years you spent crying repent
love the sinner, not the sin

dear me from two years ago,
I need you to be brave

watching the yeast explode in the bowl like I’ve been doing since I was eight years old; crescent rolls and pizza dough mostly

My first favorite poet was Shel Silverstein. Then it was Edgar Allen Poe, Robert Frost, Emily Dickenson, E.E. Cummings, Mary Oliver, Pablo Neruda, Charles Bukowski—you know, the usual.