austerity.

Him and his tattered heart and death in his rib cage; with a name like poison. War is in his tongue. His entire body is made of collapsed stars.

Will you try to love him?

Even if it’s a thin line he walks, with a face half in the light and half in the dark. Him, with scars in his heart and holes in his back; cracks in place of skin. He is a thing of destruction.

Will you try to love him?

Him, with his nightmares during the day and demons in the dark. Atlas’s burden rests on his shoulders. He craves for light, grasping for rays in his miles of night.

Will you try to love him?

Him and his reckless love and secret pain. His is a silent grief for the sky, for the earth, for the heavens. The universe is confined in his flesh.

Will you try to love him?

Even if he clings to foolish hope and leaves prayers in your mouth. Him, with chaos for eyes and blood in his lungs. He remembers how to fall. He remembers how to burn.

Will you try to love him, the angel that fell from Heaven and then rose from Hell?

/ˈhōlē/

1. You are trying to convince me you are not beautiful by saying you’re not heavens-sent no matter how many times I try to argue that you are and yes it’s 3am and I’m drunk off my ass on vodka and lemonade but I don’t need to be drunk to know that you are absolutely divine.

2. You tell me you cannot be heavenly because you don’t believe in God and I laugh because my belief in God died at 14 in a nursery bathroom—but that is a story for another day—but I know heavenly when I feel it and your smile is the warmth of the gods on earth.

3. You will not manage to convince me that Neith herself did not weave your very bones together while Hathor sculpted the clay of your beautiful face (I know you hate that word, I’m sorry, but the words to describe you otherwise elude me and I need you to know). You will not be able to tell me that Anubis gifted you the strength to kill a man of needed and Osiris himself breathed your life into your flawless form in one divine moment.