by Lillian Rose

I craved solitude.
My fingers followed my curled body
beneath my floral covers
one eye fixed on a sample of prayer.
Now I lay me down to sleep, I imagined
the words, I tried to give them the same
warmth as the domesticated,
dams holding candles, wearing bonnets.
Darkness accompanied the prayer’s fourth corner
and danced across the walls like fingerpaint.
I pray my Lord my soul to keep, I read
because salvation felt like a scale.
My faith in balance with the failure to ignore
my relationship with doubt. This time,
it ogled me before I hid my other
eye. If I should die before I wake.
I pictured the tender hand of death,
elysian lightning, swift. I pray the Lord my
soul to take. My subtle reminder to
God not to forget me. And the darkness that
lingered there did so for the next five years.
And now I think of the letter I:
a solitude exploited to convince me this
prayer was mine.

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About the Author:

Lillian Rose is an aspiring poet based in Schenectady, New York. Her work has been featured in Signatures Art & Literary Magazine. Outside of writing, she is often found in a local coffee shop, quietly working or lingering over a cup of coffee. Her favorite apple is the Granny Smith apple, a classic choice with the perfect balance of sweet and sour.