By K. R. Taylor

if i am to die a bloody death or a porcelain one
and i am met with blinding bleached gates
there better be enough tears to fill the dried out rivers
from below the bridges i once burned 

the tears better be from god himself 
every single fiber of his being ought to tremble
until the earth quakes violently and collapses in on itself
the way the walls of my childhood bedroom did

he is better off to not touch me, not even hesitate to
knowing damn well i will reach into my abdomen
and grab the crowbars easily mistaken for metallic ribs
and have him calling for mary

my baby blankets will accompany me for his welcome
and i will offer them as handkerchiefs
for the blood all over his hands 
might as well use something he dirtied already

we will sing the sorrowful song of apologies together
for he accustomed me to the lyrics with every lover i ever had
with my own mother, my own dad saying the same thing
until it was tattooed into the inner works of my eyelids

the desperate plea for forgiveness will not be falling off of my tongue
this guilt never belonged to me despite its livelihood behind my teeth
it will be pouring out of god’s mouth
until he’s coughing it up from his stomach

once the following acid has burned the pearly white stairs
he will thank me for believing in him, as if it is almost a question
to which i will answer him with a tight jaw

someone had to be held accountable for this.