you stupid child.
all you are is a tragedy.
you look for god in the most unlikely of places-
you won’t find him,
in the pool of blood on the bathroom floor,
or behind you in the mirror as your eyes burn with hatred.
they say god does not make mistakes,
and you want to scream-
because that’s all you’ve ever been called.
you fall to your knees,
and beg for your life.
you are too young to have these scars.
but God does not witness your pain,
as you tear yourself apart,
to make a mosaic of the pieces,
you have been silenced.
you won’t find god,
as your hands are tangled in his hair,
as you turn his mouth into your confessional,
as you sin.
tonight, you light a candle for Ares,
so he may find his way back from the battlefield.
you’re reminded of rama and sita,
and the village lamps that lead them home.
tonight, you pray to the ancient gods,
and they reply.
because they know what it’s like to be forgotten.
you find Ares in the silver of your blade,
he whispers to you,
and you tell him stories with your skin.
he wipes the tears from your eyes,
and stands you back on your feet.
he tells you why god never answers your prayer,
because you are not made of clay,
you were forged from iron.
you wear a perfume of blood and an accent of death,
molten lava runs through your veins.
he knows there is a darkness inside you,
he tells you to succumb to it.
you are anything but a tragedy.
you are one of us.