Not for Anger. Not for Love.

A glimpse of the bruises along your back. wincing she sees. Cringing she turns away.

meek. slightly embaressed you explain.

She thinks of passionate anger. passionate love. She thinks of children and sticks.

Doesn't he understand? Don't you?

She wants to scream that you're beautiful and even if you like it these things shouldn't happen. They shouldn't happen for anger. they shouldn't happen for love.

We spent so long looking for passion and she wants to tell you if you've found it, this isn't the kind she wants because it looks painful. She wants to smooth it away, to kiss it away. To run milk and sugar along your skin, not because she thinks it would help but because she wants to show you she loves you.

She wants to tell you that you're not just beautiful, you've heard that before. but Sacred. everyone should revere you in the same way. A shining diety come down to live among us. They should be scared to wreck you, to taint you, to break you. Not because you're fragile. not because you're weak.

because you're deserving.

a thousand times higher than these blonde haired boys. They disgust her. She hates them. she hates all of them. She always has.

because she doesn't want them to ruin you.

She thinks of churches. They should get on their knees, weak and aquiescent. They should close their eyes (aren't they always more beautiful eyes closed, lashes thick?). Their lips should mumble whisper their most precious hopes and dream into your skin. your lips. the folds of your body. They should be devoted. committed. faithful. Come every service. They should work for your love and know they're still undeserving. They should count beads of crystal and send a thousand prayers. Light a thousand candles. The pews would be red velvet and they carpet quiet. The lights would be low and they should all be glorious.

because you are. you are glorious.