go back to when you had ownership. go back to when you knew you were necessary.

(you were.)

wouldn’t it be the simplest thing (the easiest thing) to turn off all of the lights (play god with switches) and sit on the floor (grounded) and stare out the window (past your own reflection) into the glowing eyes of a neon savior?

a god for late night believers; a patron saint of tongues caught between teeth, cheeks as red as cherries; a name to scream with white-blind eyes; a face to shake juggernaut fists at and beat the pavement into useless submission.

lines of a lighted cross blink out one by one and you pitch forward into the morning.

(go back to midnight, when the roar of the streets burst through your ribcage and the words of the damned fell from your mouth in broken tirades, go back to midnight, with the taste of adrenaline and a Glasgow grin, go back to midnight, before sunlight violates the skyline and steals the thrill of lygerastia, go back to midnight and remember the idea, the possibility of ownership, that you could possess the open arms of your fellow dystopian charlatans, congregating to exchange glances and cry Moloch, laugh at the exsibilation of the disappointed figureheads of everything you stand against.)

bat those eyelashes and play coy with the dawn, part amaranthine lips and bare your teeth once its spine is turned. lie benevolently and swear the coral sky is the only sight you’ll ever whisper a prayer to.