Dear sad people,
I was raised to believe that the sun turns purple when humanity learns to glow
but lately, the warm wooden library I sat in turned cold.
In the summer I'd pick up the heaviest explanation of evolution and smile at it like a proud amphibian,
in the winter I'd write thickly about praying to a stagnant universe.
In the winter, I'd forget I'd evolved.
I once dreamed that Jesus gave me a tour of the Old Testament heaven.
The ocean water slapped itself onto the course sand,
which rose into brown dripping bones that stood tall like the rod that cracked open a footpath.
"It's up to you," he shrugged with sluggish eyes.
I wondered if I belonged in your world.
Why do you write so many letters
to your pills and lovers and priests and ghosts?
In one deep sleep, sloppy Jesus gave me a choice,
and I chose to write my own letter to a raised razor nightmare, running and raw
that peeled down a woman's cheek as she moaned shredding herself -
I asked it to come back. It was easier to breathe through my dark, grainy subconscious
than to breathe in a park filled with regular people, contemplating
why I feel so suffocated.
I'm going to tell you what I told myself:
It never ends.
But then, it does.
A witch began to caw through the chilly air
but her voice was dipped in gold,
and so I painted a summer unfurling.
There I saw a tired sparrow shaking with anxiety,
until one day, she flew across the sky after hearing the trees whisper,
Dee, your wings are the most beautiful I've ever seen.
Before Newton defined the pull of the earth,
a muse spoke from a burning bush and awoke my bashful brother,
he trembled on his own into Egypt
and turned serpents into stars.
And the saddest labyrinth would break my heart
when she would search the night and feel alone,
but an extraordinary creature defeats stillness
and rises out of the earth like a flower.
Eventually I realised that I belonged in your world -
but then I began to glow.
And I promise you,
the dawn is bursting violet.