Jesus, do you come at 4:04 a.m.
to lonely girls with self-inflicted scars?
this boy lies next to me engulfed in the rhythm
of slumber, and my head hurts
with the pulse of my own heart.
Sleepless in the art of tumbling down
that is falling out of love for the 3rd or 4th time.
Jesus, when my skin opens up, i think you
just might be real.
He spills luck from his lips,
paving the path before him with lovely intentions,
clean like wishing me well the day of my funeral.
dirty like forcing my suicide and then
hailing the fact that he never put a knife to my skin.
but i did it myself, and i let you out- -
i don't care if you taste like alcohol again, and the
sound of being alone isn't as loud as it used to be.
just stay asleep, don't decipher my prayer,
these hands don't meet often and they are
older than I recall. Jesus,
i've seen the sunrays bend just to brush up
against his cheek,
i've heard a thousand footsteps of the city
melt into one beat-
Jesus, do you come to the girls that mix up
love and doubt?
His lips make promises that my hands break,
and when you're in me all i feel is you aching to get out.

(2004)