another summer rushes in,
replacing a winter of torment.
when lucretia destroyed herself,
did she really think it God's will?
my life, too, has been emptied
nothing within to fill
is it my fault that this happens?
every couple winters
every couple spring?
There is nothing surprising in that, for the Adversary himself masquerades as an angel of light
while i spent time fixing
all my little imperfections
painting over every old crack and wound
a callous ingrate
who only had themselves to think of
grew bored,
and tore me apart.
as i stitched my wings
back together
thread by thread
made myself whole, once more,
perhaps the first time ever,
though battered and bruised,
he aimed for my heart,
and struck true with the word:
"Never"