For the Children With Fire In Their Blood

‘I didn’t sleep well last night’ is all you say, as if you sleep well every other night, as if you don’t have more important things to do, heavier burdens to carry. Rivers running through your fingers and vaulted ceilings made entirely of stars. Nameless faces, unfamiliar voices in song; lulling you to sleep, to drown. The dark rings under your eyes are a permanent fixture, no amount of vanity will take them away. They are a part of you now, just as much as the dirt under your fingernails and the eyes that constantly feel as though they stare into the depths of your soul. You hide the scars from the world behind forced smiles and a gentle voice, clutch at the wolf teeth strung around your neck and repeat prayers in your old tongue until your voice is cracked and hoarse and these are the only words you will ever know (besides the names that are too sacred to speak aloud) Is self-deprecation an act of devotion? You’re no prophet. Your place is not to sing and dance in their praise but to silently shoulder the weight of their wickedness, their monstrosity. You feel their divinity like a thousand knives in your back, between your ribs. You’re no prophet. Your place is not to teach others of their pain. You are wild; born of the wolf with forest fire burning hot in your veins. You’re no prophet. You’re just a child who howls with the wind and dances in the rain. Notebooks filled with words that can never pass your lips, ancient languages whispered in your ear even as you struggle to hold yourself together. People hear the words ‘sacred, holy, divine’ and think of cathedrals gilded in gold and silver, ornately carved statuettes of the virgin mother, sunday mass and quiet contemplation. You know this to be untrue. Your prayers are selfish and your altar is the ever changing landscape which surrounds you, mud and moss and snow. ‘I didn’t sleep well last night’ is all you say, even as war rages in your head and the will of the Gods is enough to force you to your knees.