cry for the moon. make it holy.

you were caught in the crossfire of childhood and stardom

there is no god, and we are her prophets. girls against god. mythical promises born from a youthful winter.

moonlit, i kneel before a frozen lake in search of a holy version of myself.

i am only an illusion growing weary. firstborn daughter only in name. blessed with star-like solitude. tangled in a blinding curse. (this is a gift this is a gift this is a gift.)

half-alive, my angel in white appears in her prettiest dress. it’s stained from pomegranates and mulberries. winter refused to grant her wings, lonesome angel sinking below ice.

caught in a self-made horror film, she wails to helpless fates. her blistering screams echo silent and unnoticed.

her past, prewritten for self destruction. no original sins worth gnawing over. i continue to love her anyway.

there is no god, and we are merely girls aching to tear into flesh. girls against god. false myths, false prophecies.

alight with desperation, god came to me as a reflection in blood. she leans in close: ‘find someone else. stop praying to me at dusk. release me from this frostbitten pedestal. i am not the saviour worth reaching towards. sing your lullabies, one day soon this snow globe will crack.’