Saints Don’t Come Here
I started young
sneaking late-night screens under blankets
learning early that my body could drown out any thought I didn’t want to feel
Found out I could hit that switch and shut off grief
shut off fear, shut off boredom
shut off the fact that nothing in my day felt real
By the time the others were fumbling their first kisses
I was already running on a circuit
chasing that electric numb through whoever said yes
Didn’t matter if we matched, if we clicked, if we fit
just mattered that I could lose myself in skin and sweat and reckless mess.
Years later, I tell people I am a flirt, a free spirit
a wild heart
like that makes it charming when I blow my life up every time I get bored
I joke about “addicted to the chase, ” “sex positive
” “no regrets
” while my conscience rots in the corner and the universe keeps a score I cannot afford
I have stood on stranger’s balconies watching sun come up over a city that doesn’t know my face
wearing clothes that don’t smell like my house
Knowing I have to walk back into a life that trusts me
Mouth tight, saying nothing.
Everyone thinks lust is hot lights and good angles and candy glossed lips in a music video frame
They don’t see the part where you’re shaking in a shower at noon
Trying to wash off your own sin.
Saints don’t come here, not to these sheets
not to these back rooms
not to these shaking hands taking one more hit
Whatever heaven is, it’s not this motel
not this apartment, not this stained couch where I sit
If lust is a chain, I’m neck-deep in links
collar burned into my throat, the metal digging in
I keep saying I’ll stop after one more night
Then I let you in.
I’ve tried to quit more times than I’ve come
white-knuckling through weekends, deleting numbers
blocking contacts
Then some quiet Tuesday hits with a smell, a song
a look across a store
and I’m right back in the old flames, I drink less now
knowing booze turns the volume up on the creature that claws at self-control
But staying sober just means I know exactly what I’m doing When I cash the toll.
Every therapist I ever ghosted said the same shit
different couches: You’re not fucking for fun
you’re fucking to vanish from yourself for a while
And you’re wrecking houses, They told me “write, run
pray, breathe, sit with the ache
let it roar and pass like weather through your chest
” Every time it spikes I still reach for a body
Tell myself I’ll work on the rest.
Saints don’t come here, not to these sheets
not to these back rooms
not to these shaking hands taking one more hit
Whatever heaven is, it’s not this motel
not this apartment, not this stained couch where I sit
If lust is a chain, I’m neck-deep in links
collar burned into my throat, the metal digging in
I keep saying I’ll stop after one more night
Then I let you in.
One day my luck runs out, my body quits
my secrets spill
my charms stop working on doors and hearts, On that day
when I sink into whatever pit I’ve dug with all these nights and cars
I’ll probably still be reaching out, Shaking
Begging someone to distract me from the truth I fear
Knowing full well Saints don’t come here.