the promiscuous psyche:

laid bare

for anyone who’d look.

there’s a certain freedom

in saying “to hell with modesty,

to hell

with emotional chastity.”

i don’t think life is exhausting,

i think lying is.

these two things have become

ink splotches,

their vines bleeding into one another,

their tendrils tangled.

our prudish hearts—

their binding.

you alone 

hold the shears

you alone 

will cut that ribbon.

your ribs, 

cell bars—

are we not all born

with caged hearts?

freedom:

a decision.

the crab crawls

from its shell.

exposed.

but there is no sweeter taste

than the kiss of saltwater

on your back.

your pain grows wings,

it evaporates with the water

into the blazing sun:

angels to the heavens.

you’re made clean.