He can see kids glowing in the kitchen,
Hands sticky with sweet gossip,
Bright, beautiful little selves smudged by the window that he,
A cracked old statue has broken his hands and fingers by banging on,
Screaming for them to let him in,
Let him sit with them one more time,
Let him hear one more secret.
And he cries:
He cries all over his salty, bitter skin,
Because tears are the only things left
That taste like sugar.
When I was a little younger than I am now,
I went home after school and wrote until bedtime.
That was enough to take me into the stratosphere.
I'd play in the cloud for hours and hours.
I will tell you what I remember from high school, and I will tell you how you can follow in my sinful and lowly footsteps, that your blood might be as holy as mine.
I first began in the business of selling people when I sold a strange man in Jerusalem that I did not like for thirty silver pieces. Swaths of people flocked after him down into the precipice of the market.
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