No Angels In London

They called her fallen,
and she can't fight what they say;
she will never get back up.

Children cry in the streets, not knowing exactly why,
not knowing that it could be so much better
than they've ever known.
The angels can't do anything to help.
Their wings are torn, their hands scarred
from dealing with the pain so no one else has to.
They hide their bruised arms and red eyes
with long sleeves and makeup.
They keep it together so no one else has to.
Because anything short of perfection is the same as damnation,
and anything less than what's expected isn't tolerated.
And so they struggle to maintain the imperfect, impossible ideal.

Identity is lost in a uniform congregation,
and it's difficult to separate the corruption from the institution.
The hollow reflection in the mirror becomes a shadow
as personal histories become suicide notes.
No one escapes unscathed.

While desire is a sin for women,
it's expected of men.

Our purpose is to purify those men
who can't control their own thoughts.
Their privilege is to tell us how to live,
but they can only do so because we let them.

Forgotten suit jackets hang over chairs
and the men turn the heat down
although the women are still cold in the skirts
they've been told to wear as a sign of devotion.

Wealthy old men grow richer on the pockets
of devotees who can't escape their circumstances. 
Senile old women babble on about a time no one remembers,
not even those who lived it alongside her.
Proud young men lose their self-control to obsession,
believing that everything will be just fine.
Battered young women never learn to expect
anything better from themselves or their lives.

Caged birds may sing of freedom,
but women sing because they are told to.
If they stop they lose the only acceptance they have ever known.
To be free is to be irredeemable.

God forbid a woman think for herself.

All they had to do was leave London,
but they can't.
London is everywhere, and
there are no angels to be found.