to the boy who called himself an athiest

by Kathryn Willoughby

how much do you ache on the darkest of nights —
no notifications from your hot girls
no alcohol on your blistered lips
loneliness blooming from your skin like poison ivy?

you call yourself a stallion,
but when you sleep alone you know you are only an empty stable.

someone as beautiful as you deserves to be more than a lifeless narcissus.
what must kill you the most is that you know this
and yet, you can’t stop bowing your sorry knees to your empty reflection.

we all have gods.

Kathryn Willoughby is a queer poet and future librarian living in Baltimore, Maryland. They love Nick Carraway and their cat.