Patron Saint of Bad Decisions
Maybe the truth is that I
am a broken miracle, something
you never wanted, weightless
and unimportant, a cut-out heart
that still manages to take up
too much space.
Maybe what you call life
is merely survival, and who
hasn’t been in that lion’s mouth?
But I’ve got the scars to prove
I wasn’t martyred, and whenever
it was offered I drank the wine –
but this missing has gotten so big
that I’m lost in it, and what I want
is to lose this fear of heights
and fall without falling down.
Maybe my heart is just black ice
and it’s always the middle of the night,
maybe I fear I am that ordinary,
a pretty face, your worst mistake,
not worth taking a stand for –
sometimes, betrayal feels a lot like indecision.
Maybe I’m the Patron Saint
of Bad Choices, a hand-me-down heart
too stubborn to put up any walls,
or close the windows,
or stop standing out in the middle
of the street – I play emotional chicken
at the worst times, daring disaster
like a champion – only, my bravery
is a hard-won parlor trick,
clockwork blood, years
of choosing love over reason.
there’s too much soul
in my sin, and this
is the price I pay for wanting,
but I’m glad that you
can pretend not to notice
this howling absence:
at least one of us
is good at lying to ourselves –
but you forget, love
has its own way of praying.