I see the holy war in you
I see the Holy Wars in me
I’m touched, myself a necrotising saint
I could listen to some Lorde, Pen Scott or
just some fucking Britney
instead I listen, now, to you
a lion saint
and envy you
I’d wish I sang like you
I’d wish you wrote like me
or normally I’d envy you
how you turn your gushing, blackened wounds
into savagely powerful poetry
into soul-destroyingly
real music
except… I do as well
I am not just suffering, but… also really good at it you see
my friends are touched
my stories raw, my poems real
my symbols, intricate old legends
I inspire them and
I have built the exact person I wanted to be
normally I’d want to be like you but
I am…
and it doesn’t help.
no matter who reads and loves and feels my poetry
I feel numb and lost and dead
does touching me help you
does touching you help… me
the same old loop of muses, saints, and disillusion
revelation, accuracy, confusion
something wrong runs through my veins
and the recent tragedies just made it run… faster
my blood has always been
as black as your lipstick
my lipstick always as red
as the blood I hope you never spilled
if touching me helps you
and touching friends helps me
then maybe we’re just here to do that
the saints of touch and death
maybe touching’s all that we can do
as we figure out some way to… be
—
written: 2021–03–11
