We are
putrid flesh stained with
crimson pools that fall
as we drain it all.

We are fate’s fallen foe,
fragile beings
finally seen
as sparkling truths
that become
angelic paintings.

We are floating feathers
that mingle with
soft pink petals,
forming a new nest
were we can burn
and be reborn
from our old ashes.

If any stranger asks us,
we are walking frames
of fractured madness
little glass figurines
that fall between
the cracks that we have
never ever even seen
and cut other
soft bleeding things.