Mihael, patron saint of gunslingers, burn victims, and stupid fucking pricks.

Saint Mihael Keehl of…

of where?

Not Vegas, with its neon smile,

or Los Angeles, with its cement teeth.

Not even Wammy's, not even Winchester, because you hated the gray sky and the stillness.

Boring, you said, you little liar. It made you uneasy. Too much silence. Too much of your own thoughts. Too much opportunity to get lost in the cranial hedge maze, thinking about yourself. Too much solitude, too many brambles and too many thorns.

Even you get sick of you. What does that tell you?

You don't have a home.

I can't be your home.

You could not live in my beating heart, curled neonatal in my ribcage, peaceful and safe in the marrow of my bones.

I am no church.

I was once, maybe, but the pews are broken, the aisles are empty; like your eyes now when they look at me, this ruin, this derelict.

I am a mirror, reflecting what I see.

I am not your home.

I cannot live with your fire, Saint Agatha and Saint Barbara offer no comfort from the flames you send down my veins your hate is the suffocating smoke forget the nicotine I can barely—

Breathe.

Maybe.

Maybe once, I was.

Maybe once, when summer stretched on and on like the lifelines on his white palms, once when we could speak without saying a single word, once when you smelled like rain instead of dark chocolate, once when you placed a lit firework to my lips and then licked the blood away.

Maybe then I was your home. Your pillow fort, your quilt tent, your shelter.

But no more.

I am not your reliquary, my dear fucking martyr. No glass vial for your bones and ashes.

No cairn, no shrine for the ardent pilgrims to lay prostrate in front of, starving for their stupid fucking miracles.

No.

If you're going, I'm going with you. (because there's still a faint burn bellow my bottom lip and you still can't look at it)

The shadow sewn to the soles of your feet.

Go and sacrifice yourself on your altar to whatever the fuck you're calling it these days.

I'll be here, bleeding, burning, in your wake.


A/N: Yep, more random poetry because I get bored...

I might write more and put them all in a collection or something, so I don't have random poetry flying around. Hm.

Saint Agatha and Saint Barbara are both supposed to protect against fire.

Reviews would be seriously awesome.

x0x0 Raven