Like most things that live
I need the sun to caress my skin
for the wind to paint an echo
of my skull
for the rain to wash away the ashes
that I hold in my hand like gold dust, as if my appetite for destruction went deeper than an impulsive slash of flesh
I am waiting for the snow, for the purifying whiteness of angels
to lick my wounds, to freeze the ground I thought held my foundations firmly
Oh, how to be deceived by the seasons.