Lord knows how to love
His enemies,
but I don’t.

Times like these,
it seems every friend
is a weapon,

every peace-intentioned word
warped into an act
of war.

Love is still what I
want, just not what
I stand for.

I would lock my knees
and hold my ground
if I found

a rock to count on,
but instead my
options are

to dare the
ocean to a
floating

contest—see
who ends up
sinking first—

or play hopscotch
across a schoolyard
minefield,

learn to fall up from
the earth
and fly.

Every time I try
to mend us up again,
we only rip.

But I would sit with you
still if it were
that simple.

Hand on your shoulder
blade, breath on
your neck,

we would grieve
this blood
together.

We would believe
that love makes
sense.