The magenta Speedo my dad said was too expensive for a kid ended up being the last present my brother ever bought for me.

AG was 11 years my senior.

He used to drive me all around our one stoplight town.

Some days we'd stretch our tank of gas and drive to the big city of Spokane.

Those days were slow as honey.

He'd peeled $20 out of his own wallet and let me ride the carousel for what felt like forever.

He, too, worked at our family owned restaurant, but not the way I worked- for my dad's praise and to float my candied cigarette habit.

No, AG worked because, he said, that's how you got the ladies, his voice inflected, the plural “s” sound like a trail of “z's.” When we weren't driving around singing, he was slicking back his hair and pressing his pants and shirt into crisp lines the way he had been told.

AG the sort of guy who wrote long-handed love letters and pressed flowers into books before gifting them.

Ever the charmer, he worked the smoking section in our family's truck stop turned steak-and-seafood restaurant like the virtuoso he was.

Conducting himself like a showman, his tableside manners impeccable, his tone of voice demure.

Oh, it drove them wild, he said, especially the older women.

Intent on those big tips he'd offer every one of them the same menu the halibut and Shakespeare: “Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate.

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May.

And summer's lease hath all too short a date.” Here is the secret ingredient for our beloved midnight snack.

Wash the outside rind first.

Then cut a cantaloupe in half.

Scoop the wet, almost sea creature body out and discard.

Replace the center with vanilla ice cream.

Find the spoons meant for Bob's famous clam chowder and instead use them for no-one-is-awake delight.

Grab the caramel and the peanut butter and give them both ample room in your makeshift bowl.

There were many nights he'd pluck me from my bed and take me back upstairs to our restaurant.

The OPEN sign cooled, faded from neon to ash.

AG wasn't my dad's real kid, and we all knew that.

What I hadn't known then was that neither of us were.

Not in the ways that it mattered.

Not that it mattered anyways because I would always be Girl.

Bound behind doors imperceptible.

Swimming that day in my magenta Speedo, I felt bigger than the lines drawn around me, around GIRL.

Maybe it is the way that “Speedo” went across my breasts, more badge than logo?

Or how I felt like I had won the swimsuit, a prize for my brother defeating the giant who tried to tell me, No.

My whole body became magenta as I pulled myself up from the side of the pool, chrome ladder hot in hand.

My dad posted at the fence, on his break, had come to tell us, “There's a lot of work to be done around here.” Can't a melon just be sweet?

A strut to the edge of the pool's fence where tin posts meet river rock, where I proudly take the stance of boy: Make a slight V with my legs, hands at my hip pockets.

Pressing my pee muscles into my tummy muscles I make a neat hot stream that zaps into the ground that holds all of me.

A sonic boom.

A voice over my victory song: “Shame on you, Mery Noel!” It used to be that when you ordered an Oreo milkshake at Cyrus O'Leary's, they'd bring you the frosted chrome cup of what wouldn't fit into the taller clear glass, for free!

You basically got two milkshakes for the price of one.

I remember thinking, we could have just ordered one of these at home, I mean, we owned a restaurant.

AG's two front teeth were spaced wide enough that sometimes a whistle escaped unintentionally.

“It's just for fun sissy.” The frosted cup signaled the end of our meal.

We always got burgers then a milkshake.

We'd share.

His spoon was just a straw.

His pointer finger maneuvered the top like a suction cup.

Small red rings formed at the tip, octopus brother.

Mine was the longer, more obvious choice, plated silver and long enough for searching the depths of the chrome cup for one last treasured bite.

By the time we left, AG usually had a few phone numbers in his pocket.

I still had the feeling like I was the only girl in the world that mattered.

My neat golden stream dribbles down my leg.

My face is hot all over like cheeks after sledding in the cold.

Hot like the fries in the basket we served next to Sysco's breaded chicken strips.

Hot because I have been openly scolded in front of everyone.

I run and jump back into the pool.

I'm hiding under the water trying to hold my breath longer than he can yell.

Spit-white cotton balls form in the corner of my dad's mouth.

And even though water is in my ears and orifices, I can hear, “What's wrong with you?” The giant seems to be casting spells now.

“Shame on you, Mery Noel!

Shame on you.” Pick an August night and a cantaloupe that isn't too soft.

Wash and cut it in half.

Scoop out the insides and replace the seaweed center with vanilla ice cream, in a pinch cottage cheese, out of desperation, use yogurt.

Take out your phone and open up the group text with your only nieces and nephews.

Text them: Your dad taught me this trick.

Press the icon on your phone a million miles away from the last time you smelled the smell of brother and snap a picture of your cantaloupe ice cream bowl.

Holding...what you could never quite; capture again.

Late winter when I sit down to pee, smiling.

A spell cast then, broken.

I walk past an open window where the cold air reaches for me, gently.

Pulled by memory deeper into that damp room within, a candle lit.

Here I am: both magenta and girl and somebodys daughter.

A soggy sister resting in the doorway.

Alongside the grief of your absence, brother, is the joy of knowing who it is I am missing.

My name is Mery Noel Smith.

I'm Spokane's current poet laureate.

I started reading and writing when I was really young.

And Frog and Toad, were the first stories that had some of that, like, rhyme scheme and also had the, you know, the heart and soul kind of built into the story.

And, um, I picked it up pretty seriously in high school and fell in love with Walt Whitman and Henry David Thoreau.

And, it was during Mark Anderson's Poet laureateship that I picked it up again in adulthood and thought, okay, I'm not done with this.

This, this still makes a lot of sense to me.

And, been writing for the last probably eight years, continuously.

This is my poem, “Women Budding” after Andrea Gibson's poem, “Acceptance Speech after Setting the World Record in Goosebumps”.

Darling buds daring to bloom against the odds.

Winter's late frost and early teeth biting.

It seems all at once a bloom something recognizable.

A symbol of what happens with all good growth, time and light.

Curled into ourselves a haven, a hope for what is to come.

Every woman here had to believe in life after dark.

Women budding: into space 665 days, into the Supreme Court, 9,861 days, onto the Major League Baseball fields, 1,490 days.

And that is just the flashy news.

Women budding while cheering on other sprouts, while we worked to feed and house ourselves while we hadn't a clue what came next.

At times, it was only bright green faith, unsure but scrappy.

Buds which came to us as seeds, now bear fruit.

A life made precious and delicious, all deep red.

Stronger under the sun we named our flower, Lean-On-Your-Sister.

Wrote the instructions for sowing: Reach for that which is yours, let sunshine in, a divine timing.

Applaud your every turn, because blooming can be frightening.

Rest.

Come Spring, come new earth smell in our hair and nails.

Come what may, we'll be ready.

Welcome our fears like friends.

A fertilizer.

What comes to us will always grow.

What's ripe or rot will always no trusted tangles in this ecosystem.

We call home.

Come rain, come aphids come morning dew come prudence, come mother.

Come you advocates too.

Come see budding women.

Come see what grew while you thought you were sleeping a new and wonderful, beautiful you.

My writing process looks a lot, different than it used to.

When I very first started writing poetry again, it was all feelings and trying to capture the feelings and, like, hurry up and race towards it and, like, pull it by the tail to try and get it back towards me and on paper.

And I think as I've, grown in my writing and in my process and in the craft, I start more with a discipline of writing every day and that sort of helps just pay into the investment of poetry.

Sometimes I write things and I really like them.

Sometimes I don't write anything that I like.

But the point is, is that I write and that momentum, that that consistency over time, I think is what's changed about my process.

So I write every day, no matter how I feel about my own writing.

This is my poem, “I Was Late Because”.

I was late because tea kettle, hot coil, pour over.

I was late because old voicemails.

I was late because around 11 pm, I couldn't help but imagine her dancing.

I was late because flossing.

I was late because what if there was another universe where he's still alive.

I was late because sometimes being responsible must be abandoned for soft bellied sleep-ins.

I was late because hot pink bus stop bench and a church fire.

I was late because school shootings and statistically... I was late because I pondered, how often does it rain in the desert?

I was late because bald eagles three days in a row must be a sign.

I was late because Google search spiders.

I was late because grandmother's quilt.

I was late because piece of toast, at the countertop altar.

I was late because flaky salt.

I was late because flannel shirt.

I was late because after midnight.

I was late because 4th of July.

I was late because listen, fluffy pancakes.

I was late because sidewalk volunteer Columbines.

I was late because dog face says, walk.

I was late because the second hand on the old clock is stuck again.

I was late because either way I split the wood, smidge in my one good eye.

[If you're trying to] start writing poetry and youre not necessarily considered a poet.

Start with music.

Start with books.

Music is just poetry, you know, with instruments.

And, and reading is a big part of writing.

I always tell people if they come to my workshops, like, if you are a reader, you are in fact a writer.

You just might need to pick up and move it across the page to to find that out.

But really, it's just the practicality of picking it up and having a relationship with writing.

And when you start reading poetry, then you'll find voices that speak to you.

And then my, my number one advice is imitate.

Start copying them.

Start copying the tone of voice or like the form that they write in, or maybe the themes that they're writing on.

Because imitation is the biggest form of flattery, and it's a great way to access art.

And, once you do it, it becomes your art.

It's no longer imitation now.

It's, it's, it's yours.

This is my poem, “Winged, now”, in honor of my late brother, Adrian.

Butterflies on cue.

That's how you come to me now with the music up.

Windows down your seal like laugh.

Remember you on one knee.

Reciting poetry to the girl with citrine eyes.

Now I run towards you.

Reaching out to grasp.

But the ghost of an invisible disease.

How much for these teeth?

How much for these teeth?

Now winged, your dentin is exalted.

I am reaching out to save what is left of your reputation.

What became of you was not the way that I remember you.

At night, reaching down from your top bunk to pop the small pockets of air from between my toes.

A gesture all your own.

If God is, then God is some place thats safe, met by crooks and forgotten poets.

And you are there now, running.

[The backstory on,] on “Winged, Now” is that when my brother passed away, um, I was... I was shocked.

And, um, poetry has always been a way for me to make sense of things that do not make sense.

It does not make sense that some people live and some people don't.

It, it doesn't make sense.

But poetry will help sort of put into perspective and put into context the things that I can't really put my finger on, whether it's a feeling or experience.

And so when I was processing that grief really early on, all I could do was, was write about it and, write in such a way that, you know, I was writing about his teeth, things that didn't seem like a big deal when he was alive suddenly became a big deal to me when he wasnt.

And... I think poetry is especially good at, at zooming in on these moments and kind of taking something and, and, exaggerating it.

And sometimes we do that in short poems and sometimes they're longer, but the point is, is that we zoom in on our lives and we take something that could be seemingly normal, ordinary, right?

And then, in poetry it becomes like the fantastic and the extraordinary thing.

And with that poem, I was really up against feeling like the way that he passed away was sort of like in the stereotype of shameful.

He passed away from a drug overdose and, so kind of coming up against this idea of, like, good and bad and, and does he get to go where the good go and does- Is he get to be in the light?

Because he was sick.

He was not bad.

And that, uh, internal questioning, I just I needed to process it through a poem.

I started running again.

Figured I could start vlogging, but I'm only jogging, maybe never playing is better than starting.

But I remember how it started.

Foot on the block, couldn't talk, until that feeling formed in my chest.

It's quite funny; I thought it was the running, that made it so hard to breathe, but the reality, was that the air was just trapped inside of my lungs.

But as long as the picture turns out fine, I won't bat an eye because after all, I'm just waiting to click post.

Kind of like the way you click send on the message you sent way back when.

Asking questions to theories we both knew wed figure out eventually.

I suppose it's funny serendipity, but instead of clicking post, you click postpone.

How could we fall asleep so close?

I was wearing your clothes.

It doesn't matter now.

Cause I'm running.

Running alone.

Up and down my street in front of my house, but not my home.

I always knew, but you, should have known.

I'm reviewing my post.

It's sitting in my drafts and I smile as I look back at the past and I see the date.

Who would have thought today would be the day.

I said yes of course, to the question that was asked, it was all I've ever wanted, and I want will always last.

Hey.

Where are you going?

It's only been a week and I forgot what you told me, just make sure you don't make any dumb purchases while you're gone, you don't owe me.

I enjoyed liking your posts of your travels.

I'm so glad you showed me.

Want to start to really get to know me?

Youre home.

But you brought home to me, I suppose when you had your eyes closed you could never really see.

I'm just still grateful to have the lock to your key.

What do you think I should caption my post?

Maybe I should caption it, I prefer running in pairs to running alone.

Or Rome took my home.

Or maybe you should pick up your phone.

But either way, it doesn't matter now because as long as Instagram doesn't update our past like it did our drafts by the time I decide it's time to click post.

I remember the flamingos you had placed in my front yard and my face as I walked out seeing the signed card, which is the same place you picked me up about to take me to progress, but now I can't help but running up and down my street thinking of all of this, and I just can't help but wonder if you've been on a picnic since.

And if you have loved and please tell me where; Tell me when.

Because it started as our month and and it ended as ours too.

Do you ever think of me like I think of you?

Is what I would say if I wasn't so busy thinking of my posts, reviewing all the photos that others took but I own.

I think I'm going to caption my post, come home.

But as I'm running, I begin to trip and fall thinking of all the things that went wrong while listening to your favorite song while the trees around me stand still and strong.

And I remember now why I started running again.

June 19th.

June 1st.

May 16th.

April 26th.

April 12th.

March 28th.

March 20th.

February 16th.

February 12th.

January 24th.

# 2025 # the year I stopped believing # I wish you would need me # that day I stopped breathing # my heart started bleeding # why can't you see me # why did you leave me Is what I want to say to you, but instead I just... click post.

[Logan Crowley needs no introduction.]

[That would be my intro,] because she's, uh, magnetic and powerful and I saw her perform, during the Grand Slam contest back in 2023, and I was floored by her talent and her caliber of performance.

So anytime I do any sort of youth poetry activity in Spokane, Logan is one of the very first people I call because I know she's going to be up for it.

You walked into the kitchen, all broken and battered, stumbling over the top of the counter, shattering glass as you walked, slurred speech is all you could talk, and I was just there phone in hand at 1 a.m., trying to explain to a friend that what they'd heard over the phone really made sense, but the internet was just making it hard to transcend beyond my ears.

You followed me to my room, acting confused as if you didn't know where you were or where you had been, asking what's wrong with me and why I'm acting so different.

You plead with me to get off the phone, wanting to be alone, but alone, I was already.

Your breaths were unsteady just as your vision, you were tripping down the hallway, just trying to make it back to the kitchen.

My friend listened, horrified for my present because it related to her past.

She asked if I was okay.

Not a word was spoken about you other than the fact that what you had asked was odd, considering the condition you were clearly in.

Why don't you explain how you're acting different?

It's okay.

You don't have to.

I won't ask again because the story always remains the same.

“It was only a couple drinks with a friend” makes sense.

I didn't realize one strawberry daiquiri could cause such a catastrophe, leaving you tongue-tied, unable to stand in front of me, go ahead, try and speak.

Speak about what you haven't done and what your rights are as an adult for the millionth time.

So if it isn't a crime, then it's right.

Well, if that's so, then you've served her time, because I'm done trying to put up a fight.

If you just want to decide not to come home one night, that's fine.

It's obviously just since it's not a crime, right?

When the glass shatters and the liquid comes pouring out after don't ask for a towel and a hug; you've gotten enough.

Take what I give for granted and lose it after you finally understand all that I've done for you and more.

I remember the night you slammed the door, ran off to somewhere I didn't know, drank until you couldn't tell time, while I was stuck at home crying because I just lost two parents in one night.

The muscles around my heart start to contract each time I see a glass with something, I know not what fills it.

The person who's drinking it spills it.

After someone tried slipping pills into it, leaving me only looking through the glass.

When it spilled and the liquid filled the room, I was drowning on what I knew my past was like, and all I could do was pin it back to you because that was the very thing that I was taught.

Drink 1, drink 2, drink 3, drink 4, only to find you stumbling into my room after hours of waiting by the door.

I feel at ease knowing that you are safe, but know that this memory will soon be erased, and that leaves me face in hands, screaming at every man who puts you in that position that night.

Why do I have to fight the battles that you started, watching you stumble and fall as our paper-thin walls start to crack, you wish you could take it back, well, so do I. You cry out to me as I leave, as if what I'm doing is betrayal, but you don't even recognize that I'm doing it to protect my own sanity.

For once in my life, I chose me over you, and I stopped holding your hand every time you did something wrong because grounding you could never fix what I had lost.

That is the great thing about glass, isn't it?

Even when broken, it is still transparent.

I hate being the parent.

I will be performing a poem that will help those who feel broken, feel seen, because I know that you may feel alone, but just know that you're not and I see you.

I was told by a friend that he felt as though there was a hole in his heart.

A void.

Something missing.

Because people with trauma will always be broken.

Right?

I know that sometimes that's how it feels.

And in the midst of thinking about this, I remembered a trend on TikTok that I wanted to participate in.

And that was the breaking of plates.

The way the trend works is you, along with a friend, write all the things you want to let go of on a plate.

You go outside, and you smash them.

A trend turn to therapy to help focus on letting go rather than holding on.

So I figured it was time I put this trend to good use.

Taking a plate and writing everything down that I felt I needed to let go of.

But before I could write, all I could see in the plate was me.

So that's what I wrote!

Me.

That's right.

That's what I placed on my plate.

The letters M, E. But I didn't do this to let go of what was written, but rather I saw it more as a symbol of who I am.

Because just like my friend and just like me, we all have things that we've struggled with.

We are but plates.

And as the pressures of the world have been imposed upon us, we have begun to crack; break.

So as I lifted the plates with the letters M, and E, I watched as the plate shattered into what seem to be a million little pieces.

Some big and some small, my plate was now broken.

I was now broken.

And everyone knows that when you break a plate, even with glue or tape, it will never be the same.

Once I stepped back and really thought about the broken glass, I noticed something beautiful.

Despite the cracks and imperfect lines, my plate, it turned into something new.

A different analogy of life.

A mosaic.

And it was then that I realized that it doesn't matter if you and I are broken plates.

Life is not about perfection; it's about finding beauty in everything.

The little thing.

The ceramic in between the lines that doesn't hold us together, nor does it break us.

And although your plate is different from mine, it doesn't make yours any less worthy.

It doesn't make you any less worthy.

So I will tell you the exact same thing that I told my friend.

That hole in your heart, that is, if you have it.

It isn't there because you are broken.

Because you are nothing like shattered glass.

You are not broken or cracked.

And that hole that you feel isn't there because something is wrong with you.

So don't take that feeling and try to efface it.

You never lost a piece of yourself.

You just misplaced it.

The day you quit smoking forever was coincidentally, the final day your blackened lung last contracted.

On that day, December 9th, 2018, the world went quiet so a seagull could sing about how wonderful it would be to be king.

That was the day chalk footprints died, and the day acoustic guitar sounded different.

I saw you once more before you left.

Which didn't seem quite right at all.

Your long silver hair was gone, and so was the life from your skin but for some reason, I was convinced you were going to get better.

Convinced I'd see you again and convinced I didn't need that photo of you.

Although, I'm grateful that you're a musician who lived during the digital age, because I am luckier than most grandchildren.

If I wish to hear your voice or want for you to sing me to sleep, I can play that CD I have of you achieving your dream of being on the radio.

Or I can search your name, Michael Wilsterman.

Only one “n” at the end, on YouTube and watch an old performance or two.

I wish so dearly to see you again.

Silver hair or not.

I wish so dearly to go back to sitting on your porch stringing up a small pink guitar together, my feet covered in dusty yellow and green.

Grandpa, can you teach me guitar?

And after that, can we pick lemonbalm and sit in a hammock eating chives and talking about music?

[Wren Boda, is a student,] of mine at The Community School.

I met them two years ago.

Their work is deep and heartfelt.

They are a leader in the classroom as far as the way that they can encourage others through kind of their own written permission slips.

They talk about real stuff.

And, it gives all the other students in the room permission to do the same thing.

I'm from cross-country car rides and long winding roads.

I'm from pine trees and getting sap on your clothes.

I'm from artichoke hearts; baked and dipped in melted butter.

From staying up late to watch anime and flowers you can smoke.

I'm from “old lady” and “daddy,” And from uncles who don't live within my arteries.

I'm from 8:30 school nights and 10:30 weekends.

From dragons and swimming pools.

From glow-in-the-dark stars and looking through the window.

From moving boxes and car accidents.

I'm from holding open doors and friends I'll never see again.

I'm from music and colors, all weaved together.

From playing all day and dreaming at night.

I'm from the bridges of acoustic guitars and that green, pool table fabric.

I'm from chives and lemon balm and chalk footprints.

From black-eyed Susans and sitting in the hammock.

I'm from throwing frisbee and biking down the driveway.

From buried goats and climbing cherry trees.

From tarot cards, friendship bracelets, and handmade Ouija boards.

I'm from leaving school early and dentist appointments.

I'm from “good at reading; bad at math.” From split screen games and Lego buckets.

From sleepovers and photobooths and so much more.

I'm from complexity and mistakes, from compliments and success.

I'm from it all and from nothing, and there's so much more I have yet to become.

I hate oranges.

The acidity brings out the pain that lingers from biting my cheek.

The pulp gets stuck between my teeth.

But with you, I'd peel an orange.

I'd let the juice coat and fill the unkept skin around my nails.

I'd let my fingers sting.

If I came home one day to you, holding a plate of peeled orange slices.

Id bite into a wedge with a smile on my face.

I'd ignore the suffering sores on my tongue.

Love is peeling the orange.

Love is eating the orange.

Love is the sting of acidity.

Kentucky Fried Chicken in parking lot sunsets.

Those are unexpectedly good.

You never think of those to be things to get excited about, but I do.

Rainstorms are very controversial.

Some hate the cold and the thunder, some hate when it gets windy.

I love the rain, the thunder, the wind.

It's something strange and rare.

The world thrives in its dampness.

Graham crackers, jelly and cream cheese.

It's a great substitute for cheesecake.

Try it sometime.

The warmth of fireplaces in hotels when I've come back from swimming, the momentary panic of getting hand sanitizer in a cut.

The pure shock in people's eyes when I tell them of all of the fake stories that I've made up in my head.

I hope I make it to be an author.

Picking up a rock in your garden to see the bugs, what was centipede telling beetle?

Why does worm avoid confrontation?

Does a plant know when it dies?

Would animals fear men if it weren't for God?

The sun feels so new.

Some bird sings the song of summer.

What an unexpected thing to hear in the morning snow.

[Lou Downs is just a honey bun.]

[laughs] She's been writing, more, more prose and more, stories, poetry has kind of come to her through The Community Schools, offering of the poetry wellness, which I teach.

And she's just really come a long as a performer and as a poet, using her ability to create these big, fantastic worlds.

And then sort of, you know, getting them down, whittling them down to these really, um, special poems and, again just amazed by her talent.

My first memory is a loud call from my grandma up the staircase, calling out Steve.

I joke that she startled me into consciousness, a bust into my brain, calling out Debbie.

My mother tripped in the parking lot.

She gave birth to me that night, calling up Jack.

My dad held his dog's fragile body.

He found him dying in his food bowl, calling out Laurie.

My pop pop broke his elbow.

He was building a playhouse for his daughters, calling out Jolene.

My grandmother, became the first female minister at her school.

She passed with better scores than pop pop, calling out Chuck.

My family chose morals over religion, but still love God, calling out Jesus.

And when I get depressed in the winter, I sometimes forget the love that I have, and only then, I find myself calling out Yahweh.

Through the glow of my screen, I scroll aimlessly on endless fields of romantically hopeless, endless posts Something I don't understand.

How do others fall together so perfectly and kindly?

On paper I leave my notes and signs.

My croaks of death.

Because my love has no dignity.

No man could ever think of me that deep or be stuck.

Tossing and turning.

Thinking of my short blond hair or my crooked smile.

Or my tendency to talk for hours, endless hope, and crawling vines, and crumbling cobbles, morning baths, and the scent of my perfume, is the way I dress or part my hair, the reason I can't get it all, the tired veins below my eyes, my oxidizing copper eyes.

Would you stare into them so deeply?

Something has changed about the way that I think about you.

Your words, your defense.

What once was mostly healed, a scar like all of my others, opened once more.

I almost see the sun rays eating you, vampire thing.

You burned like the damned.

My corduroy pants button again, my breasts fit back into my outgrown bras that I didn't care enough to throw away.

I wish that this was shed healthy, but I'm afraid that my skin is shrinking and my ribs are visible.

I've never seen these bones form a concave bridge over my stomach.

I reverted back to the anxiety that you have rooted.

I pull weeds aggressively.

I do not stop until no more can I stand.

He hauls me down the walkway from tile to blue carpet chair.

I feel it every day.

My back aches along with every other muscle in me.

I feel you so often, this body is used to your obnoxiousness.

I'm comfortable with what has been.

I'm stirring, like the mud at the base of a river pounded in by children's feet.

How is it that you get this bliss and freedom from this burden that you began?

And now it's all on me, all of my shaking limbs.

You have earned your heaven because you believe that you were God.

And you left me to rot because I did not.

I'm left intoxicated, venomous thing.

Some day you will burn like the damned.