One thing that's certain is that you will live.
You will live long after the world ends.
(And here's a secret:
it won't end just once.)
There is a secret that nobody knows.
There is something more endless than infinity
and something more honourable than sacrifice
and something more unpredictable than chaos.
(The stuff that dreams are made of.)
There is something that's colder than what is frozen,
something that's warmer than what is melted,
something that's softer than what is dissolving,
something that's stronger than what is everlasting.
(There's always some other possibile answer.)
There is something that we keep forgetting
and something that we can't stop remembering
and something that we will always think about.
(The power of mind illusions over world realities.)
There is something worthless that we will treasure
and something worthwhile that we will discard
and something comforting somewhere between.
(The parts that were cut out in shades of grey.)
It is raptured, diseased, sunken, scary.
They gave us many names when they called us.
Girlhood as the peacock striking a pose
under intricate webs of falling rain.
Girlhood as a dagger, girlhood as a battlefield,
always a leftover body floating in the river,
always a pulse to detonate the grenades.
Girls playing at being wolves, at being sirens,
at being gods and being demons,
heads bowed in reverence and shame,
praying with dulled teath, chewing up
and spitting out ancient light, crumpling it
and tossing it to the edge of the world with
reborn hands. And their girlish heart chambered
are boxed, personified, turned into missiles
fired at a stagnant wall, rattling like poltergeists
all the way to the ground where weeds grow quietly.
They carry on, heading towards another mid-youth crisis.
