the unbecoming

I thought I’d found heaven in madness

and fashioned godliness out of my own

ashes.

Perhaps I knew, then, that this was merely the limitations of a mind made warped and wild;
though they praise the poets for dying
and saints are made from gas-laden corpses
I am no Plath. I am no woman bound to die by the noose of my own hands.

May I be mad,

mad,

and live.

May I love my madness. some day, it may be all I have.