What’s the end game? Well, when hate is your agenda, and my own is but love, then this game is not one in which you feature, and my end, is a far-flung world from yours.
Call me reckless, call me hopeless, say it to me, implore. Call me feckless, call me helpless, call me all those things and more. All I ask if that you heed the one good reason you’re ignored. Judge me all you like, its not you I do this for.
Experience has taught me to tell the difference between a man that wants to tame me, mute my voice and claim me, and a man that is bold enough to let me be free.
Welcome to the heart of me, the purest, uncut parts of me. These inmost fragments that you see, from pain and passion came to be, in blemished, unclothed intimacy, existing here as poetry.
I couldn’t care less how much money a person has, or what their job title is. Show me a person who seeks out the beauty in a wreckage; who’ll take the remnants of their troubles and stitch a sail from the tatters.
Burnt mirror, smeared glass. Do you like what you see? If my body is a temple, then my poetry is the darkest vestry. My mouth is a chalice, and these words are sacramental.
I was told I could break free if I wanted to. That my wings would mend with time. But how can I mend a part of me that was never built to weather a storm?
I strip. In low light. In the silence of my room. I strip like an act of confession. Unclothing my meticulous mind and teasing language from the vestry of my soul.
And again I’m in your arms. Searching your skin for some small comfort. Your touch, this time, is love’s purest tender. Your hold, for now, is a fortress I feel safe in. Maybe, once more, I can call your body home.
