when the choir of god sings and a halo shines at on the heads of the angels that look different from the white, powder soft babies you saw painted on a filippo, you will not be welcomed into the pearly white gates of heaven.
when you are burning underneath the soil of the land that gave birth to you, screaming for the lord, only the devil will caress you with his poisoned tongue. and when you feel his course touch, you will understand that god is not the salvation, he is not the demise. god is simply the pain - beginning to end.
for when he made us with amber and mud, he did not mold poetry into our fingers. he did not play his guitar and sing melodies into our hearts, he filled us with concrete.
and our sins will not be forgotten, it will not be the bliss of ignorance to the raging fires under our feet, but dead leaves to bandage our bleeding wrists and broken legs. it will not be acceptance or empathy or soft caresses on our cheeks, for we are not painters that could use the stardust from our souls to paint our horrid deeds into pretty paintings, we are not sculptors who could mold our broken frames into statues of gods and deities, we are not poets who could twist our tongues to make our bitter honesty sound sweet.
we are not those who create art from blurry memories.
we are those who god will not touch, those who lived under tall roofs of the sky and read useless books under the light of the stars.
we are the bitter, and salvation is not for those who let teenage angst consume them with poison.
