SAINT JOAN OF THE CUL-DE-SAC (Part I — Cul-De-Sac Gospel) The streetlights buzz like dying saints, Throwing halos on the cracked concrete. Every lawn’s a little kingdom, Every kingdom incomplete. Mothers watering plastic roses, Fathers praying to a clock. Kids with gasoline in soda bottles, Learning how to worship shock. The preacher says, “Stay in line.” The billboard says, “You’ll be fine.” But nobody tells you How much of yourself You leave behind. Pre-Chorus So we carved our names Into bus-stop glass, Like prophets trying To outlive the past. Chorus I’m Saint Joan of the cul-de-sac. Making halos out of heart attacks. Everybody wants their old life back. I don’t. I found mine. I’m Saint Joan of the cul-de-sac. Patron saint of the aftermath. Everybody said I wouldn’t last. Look at me now. Look at me now! Saint Joan. Saint Joan. Saint Joan of the cul-de-sac. ⸻ Part II — Girls Like Us Girls like us grow up strange. Too loud for church. Too quiet for fame. Putting eyeliner on Like war paint. Learning every synonym For shame. I kissed disaster Behind a pharmacy. Fell in love With things that couldn’t love me. Turned self-destruction Into poetry. Called it freedom For a while. Pre-Chorus We were stars In a parking lot sky. Trying to burn Before we died. Chorus I’m Saint Joan of the cul-de-sac. Making halos out of heart attacks. Everybody wants their old life back. I don’t. I found mine. I’m Saint Joan of the cul-de-sac. Patron saint of the aftermath. Everybody said I wouldn’t last. Look at me now. Look at me now! Saint Joan. Saint Joan. Saint Joan of the cul-de-sac. ⸻ Part III — The House at the Edge of Town There’s a house At the edge of town. Still haunted by The girl I was. She left lipstick On every mirror. Still believes The damage was love. She wore broken hearts Like jewelry. Collected bruises Like souvenirs. Mistook survival For a punishment. Spent years disappearing Inside her fears. And some nights I swear I see her— Standing barefoot In the rain. Like she’s waiting For permission To come back again. ⸻ Part IV — Telephone Wire Halo Nobody canonizes girls like us. Nobody writes our names in gold. We learn to stitch our halos Out of telephone wire And carry ourselves home. The miracle wasn’t escaping. The miracle was staying. The miracle wasn’t becoming Somebody new. The miracle was digging Through the wreckage And finding something true. A pearl inside a car crash. A garden in a drought. A girl everybody counted out Learning what survival Was about. ⸻ Final Chorus I’m Saint Joan of the cul-de-sac. Making halos out of heart attacks. Everybody wants their old life back. I don’t. I like mine better like that. I’m Saint Joan of the cul-de-sac. Patron saint of the aftermath. Everybody said I wouldn’t last. Look at me now. Look at me now! Saint Joan. Saint Joan. Saint Joan of the cul-de-sac. ⸻ Outro Streetlights humming Like a choir. Summer smoke And telephone wire. No cathedral. No crown. No miracle coming down. Just a girl The whole town forgot. Who learned to turn Scars into scripture. Who learned to make A home from the ruins. Who learned that survival Can be holy. Saint Joan. Saint Joan. Saint Joan of the cul-de-sac.
