She was scratching her back,
scratching her skin, scratching her
Fake wings, she said “wings, what kind of wings
are these”
When they flutter and beat
The dense air she breathes
But
They can’t lift,
But they can’t lift her aching body
As it weighs her down to her
Knees,
Jumping with both feet,
Jumping
High to reach a brighter sky,
The stars so bright, but to this ground
She sticks,
Scratching, her soul scratching to
Break free,
her soul aching behind the
Brittle bars
Of her own ribs,
her soul
Itchy, and She,
She with a capital “S”,
A nameless, Shameless goddess,
With her fists clenched and her eyes
Wide open,
Her strength is her crown,
But her self esteem, well it sometimes slips
and She, she slides down the scales
of her favourite blues.
Well, you know, it’s blue and cold tonight
and this is where She needs to be,
in the darkness of this room, the
Vastness of a field of
Infinitely
Tangled thoughts, the hallucinating warmth
of an evening so void of plans
that She can hear the echo of her screams,
She screams and She knows
That her thoughts
Still
Make noise,
Still,
There is love in Silence,
In Silence there is healing and
She
She is a small girl with sweaty palms
and fake wings that just make her look
prettier, but not wiser, not as
Strong as She needs to be
But She, She knows
She is beautiful anyhow
With this Soul that
Scratches and Searches and
Stays, connected to everything that matters,
protesting, sometimes in silence, but always
Alive. Alive always.
She, the Rebel Queen,
tired with no tiara to capture grandeur,
black circles underneath her eyes,
She, the Rebel Queen,
with explosive thoughts and a Soul that wanders,
the power in her eyes as she Scratches and Searches and
Stops
if She needs to,
to marvel at the castles she built and the
Wonders,
those human wonders that make the
Stay
worth it.
Rational Artist 