nonchalance:
a prison.
nonchalance:
the schism,
between passion
& living.
chalance,
an affirmation:
you have a heart,
it’s beating.
Tag: self love
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so so close
but worlds away
like Adam’s outstretched finger,
i know not the warmth of your touch.
that tragic scene
longing for fusion:
to be created
is to be separate.
who am i to blame?
how can i be both
wounded youth
and wise adult?
it makes you uncomfortable
is it your fault, is it not
i do not know.
I’m reminded of that old fear:
who would i be
if i were born
in Nazi Germany?
i lower my pointed finger.
raised in the new world,
you in the old.
shock.
denial.
anger.
acceptance.
i found that forgiving you…
it was like accepting a loss,
the grief final.
these roots go so deep
but that bramble cuffs you
to that rock-like dirt.
I’m done breaking my back
to pull you free.
I now walk away
and leave you be.
I love you —
But ma,
I need to be me
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Once I met you,
I never stopped falling.
Getting to love you?
My one highest calling.
This heart was made to love,
these eyes
for adoration.
Loving you
is discovering purpose:
in all truth,
liberation.
The lovemaking is so good,
it is dangerous.
I’d sell my soul
for your touch—
by your divinity, I’ve been tainted.
I’m down on my knees,
and you spread Heaven’s gates—
I’d brave all of Hell
just to taste it.
My soul…
it is yours.
Have it…
take it.
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That family rug. ornate patterns. passed down for generations. progressively woven by each hand that possessed it. expensive threads. prized.
one speck of dirt tucked under. another. another. a mole hill. then a mountain. “it’s a molehill” they’d say. “that’s a mountain” i’d say back.
secrets passed along with the rug. secrets tucked under. eventually whole identities tucked under. me hid under.
to you — protection. me, under the rug, footsteps trampling all over — bearing the weight of the family’s shame.
a heel on my throat. can’t breathe. can’t speak.
i wanted to add my thread. they don’t use rainbow silks.
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A picture can paint
1000 words
but it can obscure
1000 more.
Snapshots of old,
you are an iceberg.
How you deceive me!
To be that beautiful again,
I don’t know if I ever will be,
if I were to look
only skin deep.
How a glow
can obscure darkness.
How weight loss
can mask a heaviness
in the soul.
Surrounded by people
but utterly alone.
Traded real warmth
to be “hot”–
but how cold
did I feel.
Why did I think
I’d cure the hunger
in my heart
by starving myself?
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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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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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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 