I am a saint of an unholy city
holding a funeral for ghosts.
I’m standing in the emergency room,
the floor smelling so antiseptic that
it cleaned my wounds for me.
I got ligature marks around my neck,
I got burns across my back, I wish you could’ve
seen me holding my head
when it was still attached.
I know. I know. I know.
Say a prayer for the ghosts that
hover, say a prayer for the gods
that linger, say a prayer for the
teenage martyr, bleeding out
from the holes in their wrists.
I’m a saint of a falling sky,
built upon the rumble and rough-
housing of old gods. Got a body like
a derelict building meant
for crumbling, meant for crashing.
Meant for crying, meant for leaking
didn’t matter what at the time, nothing
left now but a set of creaky stairs and
a voice that calls your name.
I am a saint of an unholy city, holding
a funeral for ghosts and I’ve got
angels begging, got god on his
knees, got a prophet brain for
a killer’s call, lord knows I ain’t a
saint no more.
By Cait Potter
Cait Potter is a queer, mentally ill artist and writer. The majority of their work focuses around the messiness of mental illness and the workings of trauma.