Alone + Afraid.
Still a child, a boy, who waits
for you to leave so that I may
suffer in silence and lick my
precious wounds and plot, so
carefully, my revenge against
your loving me so deeply.
You see, this love of yours is a
razor that cuts me and draws
blood, just as you would have it.
I’ve become your little Christ who
willing suffers + will willingly give
my life that you may live again.
[I have no wisdom. I have only wracked passion of a drunken sailor who
refuses the seas demands for drowning.]
Poets and prophets are beggars
with blood and bones that can
swim in the deepest silence as it
rests against the abyss. However,
they mock those whom they heal,
and cut the widows cords falling
back into squalor +shame.
[How do the hours move through the thicket of my heart
without being torn?]
Love, like the dawn, keeps stealing
and you continue to beg for it. Yet,
I am no savior, your son, nor am I a
poet or prophet. Beneath the grip of
my tender ghosts, you will find that
I am still, a boy, alone + afraid.