p*rs*v*ranc*

Lucy Stacklin

my skin burns from fighting. I carry scorch marks awards.

I do not talk about things I lost in submission. I twist my words to fit my fibbings.

I’m cold as distant islands, forlorn and gloomy as our moon.

I curl my lips at midnight, hours pass, still no absolution.

I shrink, my thoughts out of sort, I find no salvation.

night shift to soft dawns, days pass along with my misty mind,

contact of light against my skin, killing this post-traumatic injury

I know now how to drain my sorrow, and I’ll hold your hand so you won't drown,

I’ll draw ash from your lungs and blow air back as you lay numb staring at hollow vaults,

vivid indigo but gray in your vision, gray as my mind if it was still dark

I sway during tranquil night falls. I flourish, my mind buzzing. I am thriving.

I won’t cast pain unknowingly. I will spill ink, not poison.

I know not to worship my ghosts, i turn to my own mortality in admiration

my wounds looks a bit familiar to you, and i know it frights you

you may fall but you won't halt, I won my fight, as you will too

I may sin but I am still holy.

If I go down again, I’ll go in victory

I’m my own fix, so I may rot, but I am still my own god