crisscross

The hebrews. Plagued with bloody backs, and water filled lungs. 
The wispy hair of newborns, soaked in the Nile.
But one still floats. Moses. 

The pharaoh’s daughter. Destined with tragic-rooted riches and suitors. 

i am sick of writing letters. 
torn at the brim, 
the envelope seal seared my tastebuds.
i write to characters and 
cry for help , i whisper to figments of my
boundless imagination

three years ago.
three years I spent
your name on the tip of my tongue, traced down my throat,
washed out with bitter disbelief. 
I never paid you any attention during the first few days. 
you weren't quiet though. 

Really?
Even though we shattered? Even though we're not close?
Like a dangled carrot that I try not to stare at. 
I can't explain my regrets or relief. 

Fourty six dark days and disposable knights,
I struggle to stay above the surface.
Monotone pain and short lived delights,
I struggle to find a purpose. 

I would cut out my heart and wear it on my sleeve. 

I cry to the congregation, Hebrew enveloping my tongue.
Rasped and weak, yet I bellow, 
cradling my beast of religion. 
The sterling silver weight I branded on my chest prides me,