sometimes you find a girl who is forever holding up a pearly light. she is forever golden but she looks forever sad.
maybe you are seeing your reflection in the glass and mistaking your face for hers.
there are goddesses of love whose arms have not been attached for a century,
and there are shimmering pieces made entirely of death.
i wonder if being made into art makes you feel less sad about being dead.
i think i would like that to happen to me.
stain glass with my blood and carve rings from my bone, string my hair into robes and paint lilies on my skin.
i want to be immortal, admired.
even if i end up tattered and frayed, covered in stains and held together by only a rope,
tell me i am art.
put me in your gallery on a pedestal and draw a line on the floor so that people cannot stand to close.
(i would push them away anyway. i always do.)
burn me, if you must, because fire is supposed to end things but it has created so many new colors.
put your hope into me. it does not matter that i can be erased because i am here right now, and we are feeling everything in capital letters and i have to be home at three so let's do something
turn me into something that a teenager who is pretending to be more whole than she is can find herself in,
for hours i want her to look at me and try to understand why i make her want to cry.
i always wanted to be that girl, and i feel like i am dressing up in her skin.
it does not fit, but the zipper is stuck.  it's too tight.  i can't breathe.
something is exploding.
i don't know if it's inside me or at the end of this road, and i have no choice but to keep going forward.
we'll see when the sun sets.
i will never see any of these people ever again.  they might stop existing tomorrow, and i wouldn't know.
i think i will miss them, just in case.
all of the things i will never tell you can be found between these walls.
i am sorry that i will never paint your portrait.
i still love you.