I follow every rule they sketch,
careful not to tear a feather,
careful not to loosen
the halo hanging by a thread.
I count my faults like rosary beads,
roll them over in trembling hands,
searching every thought for poison,
every shadow for a sin.
With every step they carve me open,
a fresh red line across my skin,
and I leave a trail behind me-
a map of where I've tried to win.
But blood is better than damnation.
Pain is better than the fire.
So I drag myself another mile
and call the suffering desire.
My kneecaps barely work now,
ground down smooth from all the praying,
from kneeling at the feet of voices
that never seemed to hear me saying:
Am I holy if I'm hollow?
Am I righteous if I'm gone?
If there's nothing left beneath the halo,
what exactly have I won?
I traded laughter for obedience,
traded color for the light.
Cut away each piece they questioned
until I fit their version right.
Now I stare into the mirror
and a stranger stares right back.
No wants, no dreams, no crooked edges-
just a soul they've taught to lack.
Still I bow my head and thank them.
Still I whisper every verse.
Because heaven hangs above me
and I've been taught to fear the earth.
Yet sometimes in the dead of midnight,
when the prayers have all been said,
I wonder if the devil's knocking
or if it's only me instead.
Maybe hell was never waiting
in the dark beneath the ground.
Maybe hell is losing every part of you
that made you who you are now.
So I follow every rule they sketch,
trying to keep my wings attached-
while somewhere underneath the halo,
I pray there's still a person left.