Charlie Ramos (18)
a letter to god
through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault
i am greeted by the morning sun as she seeps into my bedroom window, illuminating my skin just enough to resemble the lighthearted touch of honeydew on rainy evenings. i am entranced by the idea of lust and although you seem light-years away, i imagine, with the luminescence of dawn, this is what the trace of your silhouette feels like. gentle, almost delicate, resembling the reminisce of light afternoon kisses and words strung together for a love that echoed a solar eclipse.
you are my universe and i miss you the same way the stars miss the morning sky
these eclipses now lack beauty and for this, i have learned to fall asleep without the sun by my side. with this in mind, i have grown rather restless by the idea of honeysuckle and the way i've imagined that is your scent, softly resembling the warmth of the earl grey tea i found myself drinking a couple years back. the nostalgia is kind and inviting but i am kept up at night by the rain and the way it resembles the tidal waves and the lighthouses that are greatly too far away. i’m afraid i can't live this way. neither can you.
in the midst of my trance and recollections of the wind and how it used to sound like my mother's favourite orchestra, i string my words together, hand crafting them so they do not go unheard. i do this delicately as i recollect the memories that drift by in the breeze, echoing the autumn leaves that crunched beneath my feet and the first hail mary i ever spoke with a gentle ease. with unsteady hands, i rewrite my words, unsure on how to begin this letter.
dear God,
orchids, to anyone who doesn't know them and the way they were crafted, are unpleasant. the day i was born, a thursday in the middle of march, the leaves began to fall, threading a honey-like blossom. sickeningly sweet, as my mother used to say. i believed, with elegance in my breath, that i was destined for the cosmos and all its constellations leaving me to be a labyrinth of beauty.
i was wrong
i began to wilt three months into the new year, no longer resembling the touch of honeydew. i think, from the moment my mother decided she wanted to conceive, that i was destined to succumb rather than fleet. that i was destined to become the soil of august eighth as i so often cough of heaps of a day i no longer want to remember. my heart spills onto my sleeve and every beat is a misplayed symphony. my mother was grand, i only hope to be.
instead, i am a man that was not meant to be, broken from the rib of a man who dares not to touch me so, with the weight of the bible i plead with hallow breaths if i'll ever understand God and if i'll ever see God in my lifespan. i dare to ask. where is my salvation.
dear God. i was taught that i was that i was not to keep but rather, with the lust for warmth, i was meant to be undressed body for the devil. a token reward for all that he has done for me and all that you have lacked. my days are restless and these words now spew with lucifer's weight rather than my own. i plan to go to confession today, i hope you are there too.
i am tired of the morning sun kissing my skin, outlining the parts of me that beg for love, not because it resembles the lighthearted touch of honeydew but because i no longer feel it and i no longer wish to. i buried my mother thirty seven months ago. i laid a rose upon her grave and sent my eleven-eleven wishes with her. what does it feel like to be six feet under listening to the footsteps of what seems like life. does it feel like love. maybe like adoration. i imagine it lacks the lonesomeness of three in the afternoon. i am tired and with gasping breaths, i say:
take me away. i have come to the realization that i am not loved nor will i ever be. i am the product of the unconceivable, of the unwanted. i am unwoven, disassociating with the intent of my resurrection. i no longer wish to be a burden to others. i yearn for the naked body of the death.
forgive me father, for i have sinned. it has been two months since my last confession. these are my sins.
can i still get into heaven if i kill myself
Charlie Ramos, an eighteen year old poet from Toronto, Canada, is someone you’d consider a creator, maybe even a fighter. For the past three years, Charlie has struggled with the death of his mother and all that she couldn't give him. In reading his work, readers will soon learn to comprehend the traumas Charlie has unfortunately gone through. Despite his loss, Charlie managed to graduate on June 28, 2017 with honors and scholarships and is on his way to York University to study social work in the fall. He hopes to focus on bettering the foster care system as well as all help those in the LGBTQ+ community. Charlie is also an aspiring trans man who hopes to one day become a light bright enough to illuminate the whole world.
a letter to god
through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault
i am greeted by the morning sun as she seeps into my bedroom window, illuminating my skin just enough to resemble the lighthearted touch of honeydew on rainy evenings. i am entranced by the idea of lust and although you seem light-years away, i imagine, with the luminescence of dawn, this is what the trace of your silhouette feels like. gentle, almost delicate, resembling the reminisce of light afternoon kisses and words strung together for a love that echoed a solar eclipse.
you are my universe and i miss you the same way the stars miss the morning sky
these eclipses now lack beauty and for this, i have learned to fall asleep without the sun by my side. with this in mind, i have grown rather restless by the idea of honeysuckle and the way i've imagined that is your scent, softly resembling the warmth of the earl grey tea i found myself drinking a couple years back. the nostalgia is kind and inviting but i am kept up at night by the rain and the way it resembles the tidal waves and the lighthouses that are greatly too far away. i’m afraid i can't live this way. neither can you.
in the midst of my trance and recollections of the wind and how it used to sound like my mother's favourite orchestra, i string my words together, hand crafting them so they do not go unheard. i do this delicately as i recollect the memories that drift by in the breeze, echoing the autumn leaves that crunched beneath my feet and the first hail mary i ever spoke with a gentle ease. with unsteady hands, i rewrite my words, unsure on how to begin this letter.
dear God,
orchids, to anyone who doesn't know them and the way they were crafted, are unpleasant. the day i was born, a thursday in the middle of march, the leaves began to fall, threading a honey-like blossom. sickeningly sweet, as my mother used to say. i believed, with elegance in my breath, that i was destined for the cosmos and all its constellations leaving me to be a labyrinth of beauty.
i was wrong
i began to wilt three months into the new year, no longer resembling the touch of honeydew. i think, from the moment my mother decided she wanted to conceive, that i was destined to succumb rather than fleet. that i was destined to become the soil of august eighth as i so often cough of heaps of a day i no longer want to remember. my heart spills onto my sleeve and every beat is a misplayed symphony. my mother was grand, i only hope to be.
instead, i am a man that was not meant to be, broken from the rib of a man who dares not to touch me so, with the weight of the bible i plead with hallow breaths if i'll ever understand God and if i'll ever see God in my lifespan. i dare to ask. where is my salvation.
dear God. i was taught that i was that i was not to keep but rather, with the lust for warmth, i was meant to be undressed body for the devil. a token reward for all that he has done for me and all that you have lacked. my days are restless and these words now spew with lucifer's weight rather than my own. i plan to go to confession today, i hope you are there too.
i am tired of the morning sun kissing my skin, outlining the parts of me that beg for love, not because it resembles the lighthearted touch of honeydew but because i no longer feel it and i no longer wish to. i buried my mother thirty seven months ago. i laid a rose upon her grave and sent my eleven-eleven wishes with her. what does it feel like to be six feet under listening to the footsteps of what seems like life. does it feel like love. maybe like adoration. i imagine it lacks the lonesomeness of three in the afternoon. i am tired and with gasping breaths, i say:
take me away. i have come to the realization that i am not loved nor will i ever be. i am the product of the unconceivable, of the unwanted. i am unwoven, disassociating with the intent of my resurrection. i no longer wish to be a burden to others. i yearn for the naked body of the death.
forgive me father, for i have sinned. it has been two months since my last confession. these are my sins.
can i still get into heaven if i kill myself
Charlie Ramos, an eighteen year old poet from Toronto, Canada, is someone you’d consider a creator, maybe even a fighter. For the past three years, Charlie has struggled with the death of his mother and all that she couldn't give him. In reading his work, readers will soon learn to comprehend the traumas Charlie has unfortunately gone through. Despite his loss, Charlie managed to graduate on June 28, 2017 with honors and scholarships and is on his way to York University to study social work in the fall. He hopes to focus on bettering the foster care system as well as all help those in the LGBTQ+ community. Charlie is also an aspiring trans man who hopes to one day become a light bright enough to illuminate the whole world.