Better Stories

Her body tells many stories
To those with eyes to see

Every scar tells a story
This one of the time she fell

off her bike. That one of
a fence on a playground and a

gate not quite open. There are
other scars as well, stories

that go deeper than childhood
trifles. The thin line along

Her right wrist. The burn
between her toes. There are

stories that not all eyes
can see. How she turns her back

in a crowd, or how she freezes
just for an instant when

approached on her blind side
by an unfamiliar man. These stories

are told by scars. Scars she
can trace with her fingers.

Her being tells many stories
To those with hearts to know.

Not every story is told
by a scar. Not every story

catalogues a hurt done to her
or a wound that healed. There

are other stories told of
happiness, of closeness, of time

spent breathing in life. The beat
between words that lasts a fraction

of a second longer than it
used to last. The turn of phrase

said in a fit of laughter. Her secret
smile when someone touches her face.

These stories are wrapped up inside
her heart and her head, clasped

close to her, cherished. But only
seen by those who look for the signs

of being loved. Of loving
freely, openly. And truly.

Not every story is told
by a scar. Some are more

subtle. But she is made
of all of her stories.

And those who can see
beyond all her scars

will see that she loved once,
and well. And was loved in return.

Un-made

Today was meant to be
An Anniversary.

I took what I wanted

While I walked
In that terrible Valley

Two years ago.
I said, Yes,

In a place
where the only
thing I heard was
No.

But today is not joyful.
There is nothing to celebrate.
Today
Is a day
Of mourning.
A day for grief.

I pierced my skin.
I cut off my hair.
I seek to drown
In smoke and vapor.

Today I allow the part of me that said Yes to die.

I do not walk the same barren path
That lay before me two years syne.

This is a new waste,

Here after climbing
The Mountains of Maybe
And, foolishly,
Keeping my sights

On the summit,

Tumbling headlong into
The Desert of Never.

I want to turn my back on this journey

That has tried me
Judged me,
And found me lacking.

But to leave,
I must bury
The remains of my heart
At the base of the Tree

That marks the entrance

To Beyond.

The first cut is the deepest...

For A. M. E.


Once our young bodies twined and writhed, reaching
for an ineffable moment of release
that could only be known once we gave it
a name; so we lay panting together,
spent, but unfulfilled.

                                     Still, you overwhelmed
me with wonder, with want, with need, but my
childish hands spread wide, letting it trickle
through my fingers; my eyes screwed up against
the effulgence of the promise of our
naive passion (exposed, in its guileless
infancy, to the scathing paroxysms
of all the rage and hate and spite and fear
the world had to offer), thus I could not
see it for what it was: something so new
and so portentous, just barely breathing,
its pulse quickening beneath the surface.
I kept my eyes closed tight and the brightness
burned through my eyelids, tinting my world pink.

Then suddenly it all lay broken, smashed
to pieces at our feet -- unfixable.
I looked up at you, both of us so very
young, but older than we will ever be.
I took just one step toward you, stumbled,
cutting my feet on the shattered remains
of the shell that once insulated our
felicity, turned away from the pain
in your eyes and the shame and agony
in my chest. I staggered away from you,
ran as fast and as far as my cut and
bleeding feet and my cut and bleeding heart
would allow.

                       But the wounds were still there, blood
seeping through my shirt: so I stitched them closed
with sutures I can never remove, your
name written indelibly across my
heart with golden threads that shall never break.


11/02/2010 revised 16/12/2010