How To Become A God For Beginners
Make a mosiac of those bedraggled bones, swallow cloudfulls of sky and roast stars on
open fires. Kiss like the whole world’s fate depends on the friction of your lips. Shake
hands with the dead-eyed ghost in the mirror, tell her you’re sorry, tell her you’re trying. Tell
her that some days are sparks of nothings, how some are droughts and others torrential. Sever
all ties with boys who bloom like bad dreams and stop biting your nails. Don’t waste your time
on wasps with katanas for teeth. See how long you can hold your breath underwater. Let the
light slurp up your rose-flaked skin. Take the small risk of stepping outside. Remember, there
are no comfort zones, to a God, everywhere is no man’s land, a warren to walk free. Apologize,
no being is perfect, and immortality often comes at the price of one’s soul. Take the night
by its stuttering reigns, zip its mouth shut. The darkness is a mere blot on your shirt, and your
shirt needs a good wash. Rekindle the hopes you’d thought you’d lost, Gods never give up.
Watch the world with fresh eyes, in you flow a million veins, in you stutter a million heartbeats,
so many churches to fill. Don’t pick at your scars, eat them. Now that you’ve ingested them,
they’re harmless. They’re trapped. Color your hair and give your body the gift of sleep. Hold
your own hand, hug a tree. You don’t have to scale the side of a mountain or hold the weight
of Atlantis to make a difference, to leave a mark. Remember that the best stories come from
drowned cities. Remember you’re a kingpin with wings handcrafted by angels. Remember
that the moon withers with you, that a firefly goes out everytime you drop your hurting head.
Remember the tides look to you for their lovesick cues, that the desert found a safe
place to sleep in you. Remember that, when you’re a God, the morning always comes.