Emergence

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published I splinter at the touch of my own thoughts. I am the chalice and the wine that poisons it, the silken thread and the blade that severs. In the silence before thunder claims the sky she unfurls her contradictions, this angel burning through tissue and sinew, her wings carving scripture beneath my skin. Some nights I wake baptized in midnight sweat, drowning in the dark worship of my own making, sheets blackened with ink that crawled from my throat while I slept, words I feared but nourished. When I speak, in a voice not always mine. whispers surrender to the listening world, fragile and carried on lamenting breath. Others I swallow like sour wine, truths too venomous for light. I am both the revelation carved in stone and the heresy whispered in shadow. I am the field where heaven and hell war kneel in their endless, exhausting communion. What writhes beneath this sheen of self needs no witness but the moon, no validation but its terrible birth, its necessary devastation. Covenant written in self and light: to be perpetually torn asunder, to live suspended in that perfect agony destruction and creation indistinguishable, Bleeding not in supplication but as proof of the unbearable, magnificent paradox of being divinity and dust.