The Pulpit by David Eric Scribner

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The Pulpit

I spent such a long time believing I wasn’t really here
that I effectually was not.
I held onto the skin of others like loose sheets,
wishing to cover myself in them,
to be protected, to hide,
to block out that cool, blue sun
of turgid glory,

I am more penetrated by its waves
than crystal.

(Do you see my aura?)

I used to sink into bath water,
tepid and flat,
afraid to rub off my scabs.

I used to wilt
like bouquets tangled
to condolences.

And though
there are still bags under my eyes
like the soft throats of pigeons,
my deep expels my ink and gravel,
and I ease into myself
as into
still waters.

I am no longer afraid
to fall asleep
and let the water fill up
to my nose.

David Eric Scribner

David Eric Scribner habitually refers to himself as a Cabbage Patch Kid, moon pie, and space cadet, but he’s really just a novice writer who likes to over-embellish. His current work explores the effects of rape on members of the LGBT community, but sometimes he writes about love too. Find him on Twitter and Instagram @itsericscribner.