I’ve brought myself back to life more times than I can remember. And when I say I brought myself back, I mean, I have clawed, clambered and coaxed myself from the precipice of self destruction.
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?
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.
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.
