The Vault (a poem and prose collection)

Fifteen

my skin has become a calloused cathedral of stranded lights— quiet, a mystery, made of unanswered prayers. it is a monument of memorized grief since i was thirteen; it has become a mosaic of things i tried putting back together only for it to stung me into nameless invisible dread.

my eyes has become a hammered-shut cathedral window— a ruined belief, a fraud drifting away until i no longer become real.

— nana, "the cathedral"