Hey little black-fingered girl, little-dried-ink-new skin girl,
don’t play with fire, you’re made of paper and with one careless spark
you’ll lose those words boiling in your veins.

You’re an angel with homemade ramshackle wings
and the tick tick tick of the stopwatch in your bones
keeps your pace in the still mountain fog.

Your hair’s stopped growing and your voice has shattered like icicles
but you won’t give up, don’t you dare slow down,
you little doorstep child, you little dark-woods-open-wound hero.
Look me in the eyes, look yourself in the eyes,
paint your face with the ashes of your burning;
chant the song of your feet on the ground and don’t break.

I want your blood on the table; I want your heart in my hand.
Don’t you call my name in your back-alley prayers
unless your pores are ready to open like roses
and be filled with me and my thousand shades.