Boomarmee

There must be more to you

Your daughter died- 

And you’re still just pastel warmth

I like my hearts bruised and charred

And you are all too saintly

It’s like playing a relative who’s become

Posthumously perfect

It may be gorgeous but it isn’t real

But the hope sparked at the bleakest of times-

That is your soul

Which I wish to water and grow

and carve into something mine

I’ll rip a page from an enchanted book

Light can be tragic and trifling

But I need you to be anything but boring

But you are also ripped to shreds and questioning-

Maybe death is best.

Sorrow is not enough

You are stretch marks and sickness and strength

You believe heaven is better than anything at all on earth

You merely wish to give your dears a better future than the past you had

-Every Saint has a past-

You are part of the fight against inequality

You have a soul seeping from inside your widened ribs and widened hips

You long for your beloved’s embrace, but you are enough for yourself and your dear ones

You know the importance of Art and Kindness

You are deeply spirited and passionate and autumnal and comforting

You would hold a skeleton child in your lap without fear

You read the bible and admire its gore- reading it aloud became your catharsis for when your outside had to be a demure porcelain shell

You want to cut your hair off and swim bare in the cold ocean in the misty morning.

There’s a Scorpio soul longing to escape

There’s camaraderie between you and the oppressed millions

Emotionally volatile, you are not afraid to cry, though death is no reason to-

If one is good, which we know she was, there is nothing to fear; she is in heaven, and you will join her with the matron who made you, who you now are.

I suppose you’re more like me than I may have once thought-

Though on the outside you are merely milk and honey-

There is a dark fiery passion burning inside you, 

And like me, those you love- you adore and nothing else really matters

Death is just a passageway, and it’s more intriguing than it is sad or scary

It is beautiful, like life, even in tragedy-

And your beautiful darlings- like my own dear quail

And though you’re saintly- it’s the spirited sort of fire and brimstone, and passion and love that is the beacon on your heart I need to clasp myself onto.