you’re made of dripping pearls and washed silk
and yet, there’s a monster brewing beneath your shell
sew sutures of dark threaded masks into your skin
and be careful; there’s a sea of hurt crashing against the shores.
pick your paintbrush from the basket, and there’s but one
you paint nonlachance onto scars of double sided taunts;
you’re not what they say you are, you’re the gentle snows while-
they drill thorns of outcast children into your bones.
rise, young falcon and spread wings of gilded gold
line the world roses and twist vine leaves into intricate stars.
rise, young wolf, your fur is a coat of sweetness and grey winters
would you kiss the world gently; trace the coolness over their swimming minds.