Only rebels stand the test of time.
But what is rebellion to you?
Whiskey on your breath at 4 pm or knocking at your ex’s door at 3 in the morning?
Painting your nails black as if in mourning or simply getting out of bed?
The Sinner’s rebellion is prayer.
Every night, he drops to his knees under the moonless skies to pray for Satan’s soul. The clouds shroud the moon in the heavens above as if to veil it from his phantom chants and screams.
The Lover rebels when she licks off the love served to her on silver knives.
And if the edges get tainted crimson, that just makes the pain taste sweeter.
The Messiah saved you once, a long time ago.
He taught you how to crush berries between your fingers and pretend the juice dripping down your palms was blood, so that you would unleash the fury you held within in the wilderness outside and not on yourself.
On days when your hands smell like wild raspberries, you look in the hallways for the pair of hazel eyes you followed out into the woods so long ago. But after all your years of picking your pieces up after breaking down on the bathroom floor at 3 am, you can tell where the tears dried on his face the night before.
He is the kind that saves everyone else but falls apart himself.
And the Pariah?
Rebellion is the religion in her veins.
She got a taste for blood when they dragged her through the gates of Hell. At night, twinkling city lights from afar bathe her scars in an iridescent glow as she dances in her bedroom with the ghosts of her past. Sometimes, she turns the light off and draws new, crimson scars on her skin – cutting through her armour just so she can taste the blood on her tongue again.
Every once in a while late at night, when the stars align in the moonless skies above and the wolves howl and cry beyond the dark, the rebels look up into the empty sky and try to remember – all the pieces that don’t fit anymore, the matches they had to strike, the scars that glisten like quicksilver in the starlit night.
The hearts they cut out and left behind and the parts of themselves they had to kill to survive.
But here we are, all under the same sky. We all have blood on our hands and fire at our feet.
Rebellion is survival.
Rebellion is the scars we learn to wear, every day.
Rebellion is the ashes that remain.