Faith Like a Phoenix

Sometimes I just feel picture-perfect like flowers that stay blue even if they can't reflect the ocean. and I want to serenade the firmament and resound myself to the air with silence like growing, and sink tendrils, feasting off the sun in whisper-spirals of photosynthesis and simple love like eyelash to eyelash. When you're small, spinning around in circles feels like magic, with wind webbing your fingers and flowers in your hair, wild as anarchy over your unfurled shoulder-blades. Tears don't always mean sadness when you find them on your nose and realize it's storm-song brushing your soul. This time I was running under cathedral-clouds draped in sistine light on the edges, and curling. Sorrow and love are always spat through each other, until they spark, flinting through my waterlogged eyes. I just saw myself in a mirror and turned it inside-out and around to escape me. Does ugly under rain become beautiful? What I see in puddles doesn't hurt me, but I still like to shatter them, see-through pottery running on my legs and then I slip until my jeans are soaked with everything but blood. I am anything but simple. Rain is anything but cleansing. Faith is anywhere but here, where I need it most. I lift my chin and sing to the sky that offers no release and no recompense, hoarse and battered, and interrupted as I am by the weather. Because sometimes picture-perfect doesn't fit me. Sometimes drenched hoodies, sodden denim, pale melancholy faces up-turned and chains around my ankles rising from the star-spattered dust like a phoenix define my existence.