The Water I Sing To

Jude's postcard arrived this morning telling me to read the scripture for the answer, how these trying times are not over, how we can find comfort in one another, but I have no place in the religion of Hollywood. I drink and smoke and listen to Neil Young. I wear a silver chain with a heart, which was a gift to my mother, which brings me closer to last night. I found it on a clear blue day lying untouched, and now it belongs to my tears, hanging around my neck with a motive. I pass waterways, I navigate, over the isthmus and into distinct waters. I told myself I wanted to die, I wanted it so bad I went to the extreme, making myself bleed. I ignored the warning signs, the prophets singing. I was never incorporated into the house, into the tales of hard labour. I was left an atom pondering in the sky, before unopened doors, brimming with useless thoughts every time I am doped up. I get cold feet when push comes to shove, and I am godless, not interested in the television. A charming seamstress trespasses in my visions, and the irregular high goes away. My body plummets into black holes, into different kinds of waters, into freedom. I bare my soul there, quite alright for the time present.