back alley angels, concrete kings
we recycle prayers like plastic bottles
and wish the wings would wither off our backs
remind me that we’re holy as we bind our wrists
with garbage bags and swear
to never speak the blasphemy
that bristles on our lips.
darling, we are modern martyrs
purging promises with dime store bourbon and
pawn shop cigarettes
hoping that in the ruin of our bodies we will find
something purer than the piety
that wrecks our hearts and stains our hands.
at night, we drink ourselves to pieces and
i can feel a baseline beating in my bones
they ask me if i miss the taste of ichor and i tell them
not if i pump my lungs so full of starlight
that my tears turn into rivers and
run silver in my veins.
— they call us holy and they leave us hollow (modern prophets, pt. 2) // (e.c)