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.
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.
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.
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.
How are you yet to learn? I don’t want grand gestures. I don’t want the world on a plate, the best life has to offer, material things or flashy gimmicks. I just want you with me.
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.
