You are not a shrinking violet; you are not a broken banjo
You are not the the fleeting glitter of a
Carnival goldfish, dying after a week of decorating the room
You are the room, you are the heartbeat
Of a mythological race and you are winning
You are not human, you are stardust, wheels, light bulbs
You are half feral and half howling monster of realism
You are not held down under the thumb of circumstance
Where you've been, what you've done
All those fever nightmares that made your body sore
They are not written on your face
They will not be written on your headstone
You are awake, and you're not crying
You can touch things, you can hold and be held
You can wrap your fangs around the throat of fear
And shake it until it goes limp
The moon keeps its distance because it knows
Everything you are capable of
The stars shiver, the sky howls with you, for you
The sound of rivers is an apology for all the brutality
Every breath that comes out of your rusted jaw
Is a promise: something better, more meaningful
Something bright, a limitless dawn
There is power in your paws, those dulling nails
One day everything you touch will sing
