midnight’s melancholy

it is twelve o’ eight in the morning

i am sitting on the floor and i

am drunken with thoughts of a past life

i have bones that are tired and a heart that is battered

it’s useless being pretty; I have tried and i have mattered

in ways that are trivial and boring

i will never be a fantasy. i have sick skin and bruised lungs

a corrupted brain and a torn out tongue

look at what you have made me, look at what you have done

i used to pray, to hope, but i flew too close to the sun,

and now i spend my nights sitting on my floor waiting for

something better to come along

my path and help me unlock this door that is chained

deep in my heart, deep in my skin are stains and

i am unclean. i lie and i resent

and i try, i do,

but it does not come naturally to me to repent

look at the scars on my back,

look at my wings, look at how they have failed me

look at deranged Eve and sorrowful Mary

it’s not easy being a woman

that wants to claw but is caged