My body was burdened by biblical babbling buffoons bounding my benevolence to baptisms and booty calls. My body's been buffering in bountiful beacons of bread, bloating & bleeding, by the body of Christ. The bludgeoned belief 'babies are bounty', hunting my breast. Balancing biased and bottled bravery, begging for belonging but buckled and bundled in blankets; basking in this blessing beyond the barrier, my bonnie lies over the ocean but all I know is I wasn't ready

"Maybe" is a dry desperate desert. A scorched and frayed playground for a bottomless basket brain of an overthinker, overachiever, over-analyzer, overwhelmed, moreover Maybe lies tucked between the satin silk sheets next to should, shares sugar, neighborly with could, play dates and carpools with would, flirts with might, laughs over the water cooler with possibly and gambles with perhaps. Maybe softens the inevitable alternate realities, like could you believe I actually... can't.

When we are loved we are afraid and by god my soul has left my body countless times in the presence of a god himself. Butterflies frantic for air, stammering against my chest desperate to be noticed and yet terrified to be seen. Eyes catch mine and the rocking waves of a lapping lakeside pool in my belly; bracing my sea legs that I won't capsize at your smile. A thief in the night, Drive by shooting stars snatched the only flow designed for survival. Cheeks flushed red like hives across my hands; please dont see them as I ask for a life raft that is the lighter in your pocket. I ache for both of your hands, a small form of protection to shield the cross wind. Little do you know you've resurrected my spirit, enriched yet trembling with a breath of fresh air.

I don't dare look for poems in the flickering flames of a burning candle nor at the trinity dancing against the brush of airflow, avoiding collapse. I wouldn't dare look there where the smidge of light shines just enough to trace your face, with its embers between my fingers, until its brunt heat removes the outline of its unique print. I blew out the candle; I can't see you but I've memorized your lips and how they curve like the edge of the wick bent over. There isn't a poem there.