Whispers Up in Heaven (Part 4)

by Alexis Marie

Whispers Up in Heaven (Part 4)

On some less self destructive shit…

I no longer know if I smoke blunts this late at night
to hide in lies
or because I’m more truthful high

My mind is a mess,
and though I don’t often say this,
it’s fucked up,
and in my veins is pure, unadultered anger,
self directed
second, third party extended

gun lodged deep in my throat,
deep throat the bullet
by my hand,
it’s all over, I’m dead

and accordingly

every other party outside myself is
subsenquently victims of
misdirected anger,

gun pressed
to your head,
engraved is a bullet
by my hand,
it’s all over
— click. clack. pow!

Because for the last eight years
I’ve been twelve years old,
in the basement
with his hand pointed
straight at me

— Your booming voice gives me the power,
to close my mouth,
and look away…

Teen Ink, March 2010,

— back on the flow of this,
for the last eight years,
I’ve been twelve years old,
in the basement, tears streaming down my face,

my face turned towards God,

Your hand connects with my cheek,
and leaves a sting,
I’ve felt before…

Teen Ink, March 2010 —

That summer,
When a simple prayer
lead to no more tears
for two straight years…

When it takes fourteen
and another bitch, three step kids, and no more dick,
to leave the not shit nigga that’s oppressed you
and put hands on your little sister
—claim it’s for your children if you want to,
but that other tongue to your clit
upon arrival
and instant pussy gratification
must have been worthwhile…

…not that I’m pointing fingers,
when I,
for almost three years loved,
someone who would sometimes
wrap his hands around my throat.

…my life
or your lips wrapped around some guy’s dick,

my life,
or my lips wrapped around my guy’s cock,

either way,
we’re sisters so we’re both the same

And either way, my death’s the same

and inevitable.

Whether it be God or myself.

And in crude scrawl in ‘fine print’ letters, the devil will leave his eulogy on my epitaph…

that summer,
when a simple prayer
brought no more tears
for two years,
but girls, like birds, are fickle
and my heart was like a dove,
fluttering for that first tongue,
that first boyfriend, little girl naivety,
puppy love-ain’t-shit-five-years-down-the-line type crush,
and I deleted it, the taste of your tongue is really vague now,
I wrote that
in tenth grade,
the only difference between now and then is back then I was frontin’,

because the well of true emotion
in my mind
is a landmine best left undiscovered,

and I’ve got Anamnesis tattooed on my right arm,
and Live on my left
among razor blade scars
to remind myself
that I woke up this morning for a reason
unbeknownst to me
but seen by God above,

Quite frankly I don’t believe
anyone can make it in this life
without knowing what they’re here for,
but I don’t ask questions
not because I’m not curious
but because I’m afraid to know the answer,
having seen and felt Death as a primary and second love,
if I don’t like God’s plan for me, I just might switch back over, because my mind’s been flatlined for a while now,
and my heart is slowly catching up…

so accordingly

click, clack,
Russian Roulette
with a bullet in the chamber and—

There’s just this darkness
creepin’ in my mind,
hidden through
kush blunts
and texts at three in the morning
—good weed and good sex
is that instant pussy gratification distraction,
the latter I at least know is true,
because we’re sisters so we’re both the same,


[But when you’re out there on your own,
struggling all alone,
Where will I be??


where were you?]

And it’s preached/
that unless our mind is clear
our prayers just float up in Heaven’s air as whispers…

I haven’t asked
for Your forgiveness in awhile,
so maybe You arent listening…

But I’m starting to believe the angels given to me is this cross fade,
and with a cross around my neck
I’m on my knees with his dick in my mouth in my head, because at least then this Heart Session is the last thing I’m thinking about.

There’s just this darkness,
creepin’ in my mind
and this weed
is taking its sweet time,

And my prayers are just echoing in space, so

Forgive me, Father, for my blasphemy.

~Heart Sessions — Spoken Word, 2016

copyright Marie Meyers, 2016