your eyes had this funny ability to make me feel more naked than anyone’s hands ever could
so many people who’ve seen all of me but haven’t seen me at all.
Category: Uncategorized
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To be truly seen: that which we both long for and fear the most.
…
The funny thing about the terrifying ordeal of letting yourself be truly known is that there is no real love without it; and yet, we grow so convinced that the love which we so desperately crave would only elude us even more if we were to simply be seen.
It goes something like “All I want is to be loved; but if you were to really know me, you wouldn’t love me.”
All the unlovable and broken bits. The parts of me that desperately need love the most are the parts I cannot show you for fear of you leaving.
Yeah. Something like that.
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yeah, yeah, yeah,
silent on the home front,
the familial mute.
My journal had ears,
you all just had mouths.
Ask me what’s wrong
then talk over me–
I tell you what’s wrong
you tell me
why I’m wrong.
The quiet one;
I learned speaking
and not speaking,
they were the same,
I’d be just as heard
either way.
Or maybe
you all had such thick armor
I had to throw a dagger to be known.
but I never wanted to join the war,
never wanted to join the war.
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I can’t stop
won’t stop
writing poetry.
Not when I lived my entire life
with someone else’s hand clasped over my mouth.
I’ve got to use my voice,
if just to know I still have it.
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no matter how many times
I’ve gargled mouthwash
I can still taste those words on my tongue.
sorry isn’t a palette cleanser.
no, every word is soured.
no matter the sorries
I say to nothing at all
I can’t get this stain out
rubbed my skin raw
some words are spoken with a needle
tattooed forever,
only for us to see.
I see it in the mirror,
and can’t
quite
wrap
my head
around how I’m the only one who sees it there
on my forehead.
still can’t shake the feeling
they’re all looking at it.
still can’t shake the feeling
that I don a Scarlett letter–
they can hear
“guilty”
in my voice. i know it.
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frosty orbs chill me–
the past’s winter.
but the Sun
thumps in your chest.
the clouds never parted,
spring never came.
you won’t even let yourself
taste sweetness,
for it burrowed holes
in your very constitution
leaving empty spaces–
chest cavities.
your love
boils to the surface
but you clamp the kettle.
Will you ever let yourself be known?
or will you let the rest of your life
be your childhood home?
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truth is a lit cigarette flicked onto a dry mountainside
set the world ablaze.
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it is so funny
how love
can inspire infinite wells of verse
yet render one speechless all the same.
…
more stanzas
in that stunned silence
than these hands
could ever pour forth
in a lifetime.
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where is here?
when is now?
more and more questions,
less and less solid ground.
…
oh, it’s all so normal!
gigantic ball of plasma light,
the hand of God,
like a kid being spun by their dad
hands connected, feet lifted,
dizzying and exhilarating.
oh, it’s all so normal.
vast universe! infinite! unending!
art– everywhere!
art is everything!
(how comforting
the infinite of this universe is,
so much still uncorrupted
by man’s hand.)
oh, it’s all so normal.
the night sky’s tapestry
diamond-studded cave
watery marble suspended
in the vacuum of space.
oh, it’s all so normal.
can you imagine yourself:
just for a second:
sitting on the moon:
on the seashore of the cosmic ocean–
the unnerving superiority
of the true Black Sea–
then thinking
of
tariffs
…?
oh, the HUBRIS!
let me take every political leader
launch them into orbit
peel open their eyelids
and confront them with the void
tell me. can they still be reached?
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valorous veteran
weathered warrior
steely heart.
such tales to regale
of battles lost,
battles won.
the past: his anchor.
its scars: his Kevlar.
hardened: he fears none.
but prisoner of war,
hold that secret:
yes, bite your tongue.
that one confession
its hated sweetness
he’d sooner taste a gun.
what a taboo,
oh, warrior,
it is to love…
THE CLOSET MYSTIC 