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.
THE CLOSET MYSTIC 