sistine

[tw for mentions of gore!]

and your secret is

you want to cleave the heavens in two and vanish

to the space in between life and death. your secret is that

you haven't figured either out yet. sure, it's like this:

you start and end in darkness, start and end as a concept,

and whether there's blood or not, well, that's up to the artist.

up to the painter. here's an idea: you want to step back from your

life and take a brush and color your world yellow, or pink,

or the color of his mouth, which is

blue, which was blue. you want to take a pen and turn the pages,

search for the part where you feel something, where you meet

her again, where you tell your mother you're sorry. you open

the book of yourself and the pages are stained red. nobody

is going to tell you what this means. nobody is going to explain

pain; you're going to have to feel it, kid. you're going to have to

take the knife and cut your chest clean open, if you want to know

what the hell your heart is trying to say to you. there is no sequel,

there is no prologue, there is this and here and now and that is it.

if you're going to spit blood, make it pretty; rim your eyes in black,

put on a short dress, take the knife and shine it silver.

in the temple of your body, sinners rise to greet you.

who falls at your feet to adore you, and who does it because

they are afraid of doing anything else? you can't look into your own eyes

and ask for forgiveness. you can't rewrite this story made of blood and stone

and flesh and silver. you can do this: leave the church and leave the sword

in the rock. and leave the heart in the body. the gash in the sky bleeds stars

onto your head, but you're not leaving yet, you're not

leaving yet.