You are not a saint. You are not an angel.
You are a dirty goddess with years of pain and joy
and laughter that shine in the cracks of your skin.
With hair that can still blow in the wind and feel like wings
when you let it fall against you.
You are a bearer of fire that burns in your heart, in your belly,
right between your thighs,
this fire that has no time for any untruth.
Let the candles burn as you remember the way back to your own delicious softness.