wake of saint suicidal.
but they never told me that saints could die too. i never figured mortality into it, let alone having it be desired.
the last time i see you, and it has to be like this. you're all pale, wounded, and sleeping. you're coffin-bound.
they've called you jezebel.
they've washed away that face.
and you were only seventeen.
we, us, we don't add up the pain, subtracting normality and dividing everyday. but you did it so simply, and you drew it out the long way, to months and years of slow dying.
kneeling in front of you, we both have our eyes closed but at least i can realize that mine are closed by choice too. at least i can hold this matted rose petal in my hand, and pray that i will know further how it is to be next to sin, to engage with it, follow it home, and dine over its day. if only to keep me from doing just so.
all these minutes, you've spent rising, trying to wake from some fogged vision, and us, we, just tried to make you hold on. we just didn't realize what you were holding on to.
and lying here like this, you look like a shadow, a mythical diety, a saint.
