The Church Across the Street

The Bell-tower taunts me when I look out my bedroom window.
Saints who sin are loved more than me.
Their audience comes in droves to the sounds of bells!

I hear them ringing.
I go numb with fear.

Then I remember that there's two dead trees in
the backyard. I look at them instead.

I still hear the ringing,

the sharp screams in my head that let me know
God hated me from an early age.

Angels are scavengers; a murder of crows staring into my window
at night and I hear silent children crying again.
They began to scream angrily at me,
forcing me outward, feeding me to darkness.
Handing me over to the birds!

I fall asleep on the roof as cries circle me from above.
The dead overtake my room and stare at me from my cold bed.
Little decaying hands banging on the window telling me they
want back inside the womb.

I hang myself Sunday morning. The crows pick at my unclean body.
I am not missed.
Everything goes on as it did before in heaven.