Sainthood

I have only been called saintly once before.

I laid in the sun, red strands in my hair. 

I lie in the moonlight, silver in my eyes. 

Even when people tell me to wear gold. 

Those who have told me gold is more precious.

Though I wonder if it’s a fool's errand, 

I wonder if I'm The Fool. If people 

will laugh and jeer when the mirage dissipates. 

My mirage is a thick sludge. Opaque.

A high wall to hide from misplaced affections. 

My life is made up of misplaced affections.

Blood roses bloom behind the seams of my face. 

Blood swirls and dips throughout my back like wings,

I have only been called saintly once before.