God of the cuffs, key clenched in the apse your mouth makes. God of dead aphids greening the rose whose thorns furrow me. Call me seed. As in: all I’m good for. Yes, I promise to give you what I’m good for. Yes, I promise to beg  for God in every way imaginable. God, unlock me. God, happily ignoring the body tied  to yours. God, can’t you hear what comes after the muffled yes knotted across my face? Yes, no more. Yes, I love this little trap we’ve made in ways I never wanted. Yes, the world is a face in darkness on the verge of fading. Yes, I’m close. As in: the omen of our trying is an omen. Yes, God, yes. Like prayer,  let all our trying end with a word.

Image: Photo by Farid Jebelli, via Unsplash.