i want to be the soul the gods pour their sky into

there are reasons i feel
most at home in the unreal:
my imaginary self does
not know how to bleed.
she is
something like the vast expanse
of an ocean, alive
in all the wrong places, a mass
of currents in chaos:
roiling and
writhing, the
monochrome static
of something that should be seen
but cannot be seen.
she has no end, she bleeds into the sky,
she is dying of thirst.
i am too sharp to be held, she
prays to god.
god bends down and
lifts her face and
says to her:
when they try
to pick your petals,
give them thorns.
no one who rips a rose
can make it out of the garden
without blood on their hands.

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