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I.
What am I?
A martyr with no cause
Separate my bones
Part the cracks and refill with resin
The sulfurous dust
Ejected from a god I never saw--
The sacred and profane carefully labeled
In little orbs of light
It seems the willingness towards-
Crucifixion-
Could get me held high on only stained wood
And coloured glass
... I'd be on display
But silent.
Saviours cannot bleed for their cause
If they lack blood--
I cannot siphon feeling
If I lack the thinnest skin
Footsteps tread like barbed wire
And handshakes move like words
Even my loudest scream
Could not faze the smallest cloud
So tell me darling...
How can god hear?
What makes you so important all of a sudden?
You pretty little poseur, your words running like you ran so many months ago from everything you held dear... or so you told us.
You act so big and speak so small, tossing your hips like a pinup doll
Don't hold back, or if you do, don't announce it like a weakness lined in the same lipstick with which you trace your bones
Fragile boy, porcelain puppet, your actions don't move any more mountains than my pity
Makes you halt your stomping steps, deceptively fierce up and down this city
I've seen your vulnerability
I've seen your tears
I've seen your bones break and your empires fall
Step it up honey, you can't fool them all
Credit: Douglas Thompson for photography
Nothing can touch her now. The bitterness she once felt vanish crept back into her eyes last night. How dare they. Look at her... now she wants to pluck out her skin again until its raw and bleeding like the plastic knives and safety pins of her angsty over-dramatic past. "Look at me", she used to try to tell the world, "I hurt. I fucking hurt". Now there isn't any tracery, no attention deprived, kohl-lined eyes to stare pleadingly into to eyes of others. She had to realise, one day, one doesn't have to be unique to hurt, to feel pain. Its not something set aside for painfully thin 15 year olds who kiss boys&girls and inhale ragweed like oxygen. They parody their own lives while giving it away for a pitiful glance, a bottle of White Horse, or teased and twisted platinum hair, bleached as white as God. Her name used to be Nothing. She had no Ghost, no Zillah, no Molochai... no youth.
The emphasis of pain converts it to something else, an art, something beautiful. Look outside, she is looking at the snow now, she can't cry, no she can't. She wants to one day, to let it all out, but she can't. She knows how to feel... but not how to paint her silver and blue on this lost winter night.
