scrolled thru my notes app on the train

I tattooed the cutting board tonight, bled

The parsley until it was crosshatched green.

I used to hate this, peeling each leaf from

its stem, hard like catching a sticker by

the edge. But then I also used to dream in green.

A clean house, a clean life, maybe—

At 25, it soothes me to collect

petals and rice along the countertop,

sweep them into an open palm

like telling a dog no, shh, I’m safe.

Hard month, hard life, really—

I deluded myself for years thinking

It would get better than this. The older

You get, the longer you’ll stay alive.

I want to call my dad when I hear this,

The way I’d race my brother to hug him

First when he got home from work.

All this and still, I’m ashamed.

I staple my most profound thoughts

Between business cards, hiding

scribbled prayers with what I do.

I’m a bad monk, even worse, a failed

atheist. I can’t believe in not believing.