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i. she searches for divinity in the cracks of her ceiling in despair. recalling how true suffering makes one want to be forgiving and to care. the gentle waves of air eavesdrop on her skin. it sways away with a kiss to spread the tales of the terror her body has witnessed. the tear of her back and the flash of her ribs, the cracks of her heart and the ripples near her hips.
those are not stretch marks, look close, that's the poetry God wrote on her body with the miracle of life. if you're educated enough, you'll know to read between the lines.
ii. her first blood was not from between her legs but rather from her lips. once upon a time, preteen, from her father's rage when he had first hit. her guilt is tameless, she's drowning knee-deep. coffee-stained curtains and papers drilled with ink, crescent nights spent romancing the misfortunes that she writes in the slips.
her kintsukuroi heart and phosphenes thoughts with the potential to make your life kaleidoscopic. you can't understand her phases, she's the lady of the moon and you are barely an asteroid nomadic.
iii. she flickers her fear in the waters that soak in her pillows. the scratches of her diurnal struggles are a beseeching echo. she is a tangled mess of stardust and gunpowder that you can't separate from her soul.
and you still dare to ask how divine a woman has to be. she could desire herself for as long as she wants, she only needs you if she decides you're worthy.
iv. she was born from a womb that encompasses the existence of this human race. every breath you breathed was made in her care. your generation only breeds cause she decided to hold the heir. unborn child-- a life -- coming into the world from her bone-cracking ache.
and you still think your family jewels mattered in front of her treasure, what a shame.
v. she bleeds for herself, she knows how to repair her broken wings. her dreams are broken like the shards of glass that she smuggled from her flesh to paste it on the walls, now she watches them glimmer at night when she stares at her ceiling.
we're partying.
vi. her mother birthed a delightfully fierce child and carved out a cave in her chest to snuggle a wolf behind her rib cage. your circus lions might entertain your ego, she's whose kind was burned on the stage. she's not to satisfy your droplet's thirst for scourging tendencies, she is made for dancing in the rain.
you can tame the wilderness and its different beasts, but you can never survive a hurricane.
a/n: lowkey (very lowkey) inspired by a certain someone. i hope they know who they are. 🫠
