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The Distorted Saint
I have a choice to make,
To decide which pain to live with,
The shock of what might happen,
Or the ache of what never will,
I must have the mind of the dead,
to ignore both of these,
the insults thrown by people,
and the glory given by the same,
I kill the imposter in me,
So I can make peace with myself,
who are you today distorted saint?
saint of distortion,
saint of the in-between,
Distorted Saint,
Not the martyr kind, not the halo kind,
Just the fractured Kind,
One who stepped out of a cracked mirror,
and decided the shards looked better as clothing
You wear the broken glass like silk,
each edge catching light that isn’t there,
refusing to smooth the edges,
refusing to soften the cut.
No prayers, no penance,
just the quiet click of becoming,
another attempt to name you,
another failure that feels like worship.
You are the saint who blesses contradiction,
who canonizes the unresolved,
who stands half-covered, fully armed,
with nothing but your own refusal to choose.
Saint of distortion,
you make the static holy.
Saint of the in-between,
you make the fracture feel like home.
So I stand here with my dead man’s mind,
killing the imposter again and again,
until the only thing left wearing the shards
is me—
learning to walk like you,
learning to stare like you,
learning that peace
is not the absence of pain,
but the willingness to wear it
as clothing.
Distorted saint,
fractured and shining,
I choose the ache of becoming
over the shock of staying the same.
Who am I today?
Whoever steps out of the mirror next.
-DistortedSaint
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