Like the whisper of a prayer:
you beg yourself
to strip the comfort
from your skin.
Dear fingertips, I plead with you
Get a grip on things
that don’t have a heartbeat.
A blackened lens is
less susceptible
to hurt
than eyes capable of clarity.
Your flow of consciousness, like
conversation echoes doubt. Give others
your truth.
Are you still not making sense?
Let me paint the image:
You watch as a man you once
loved becomes a man
you still love. Along the way,
maybe you remember to
stop and ask someone
if she feels longing in her
lips and her elbows
and in the pads of her feet
with such great weight -
she may realize it doesn’t take
the devotion
of a whole man to
push her
upright back into herself.
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