I am not stone, and neither am I holy.
There are mistakes carved into my flesh that cannot be.
I am cast out of the paradisiacal realms, forbidden to dream of somewhere better for a beast
Whose body and soul do not match, whose broken muscles pulse sweat onto its unwieldy skin,
Whose heartaches cannot be quantified by man.
You say I cannot mutilate the body that I am supposed to love.
Tell me, soul-watchers, how do I love that which is hated?
Is there an answer for fixing innate offenses? Or must I bleed until I am fixed?
Somewhere past Sol and Alpha Centauri there must be a world where we send our forgotten.
I belong there, in the citadel for the brokenhearted, to rot into extinction,
Until my weakness can be mended by the universe that created me,
By the universe to which I was supposed to belong.