My Body Is A Holy City

Waiting on the wounds healing I worship the clean goddess. My black eyes mimic the shadows and I make friends with time. How can I comprehend what my mother is feeling when we're not willing to understand the melodies in our heads? I move on, through the weeds of the sweet birdsong. I move on, through the clouds of destruction, through the ceremonial odyssey. Holding my hands out for you, I pray in my times of need. I carve faces onto the fabric of life, faces on the trees in the forest. Spring leaves are cut into diamond shapes. A window is left open. The sky bakes, the sun permeates, splits into folding lights breaking through facades, into the homes of water people, twinkling in my eyes. I get a glimpse of the movement. I can feel summer coming. I pull the string attached to the electric blue, I twist myself around towards the rune. The water regurgitates the cascade, lukewarm and refreshing on my naked body. It sprays me with delicacies, toffee oranges as the rain falls like vermicelli. The wounds are easily pasteurized, as if they're milk. I acknowledge them, the pink flesh doused in antiseptic magic. Red velvet and vernal air. I scroll my neck along the problems. I take my head off my shoulders. The cold air hits me. I swallow the dried beach. I think it's requisite I have made shoes for my feet. The earth is revolving around my mind, alone in the obtrusive dark of the night.