Our face speaks
The language of nuance

Our bodies are fluent
In passion

choked cries are the liberated
Voices of pain

And hands the messengers
Of desire

Spoken word the refuge
Of a race too frightened
By such pure communication
Diluting speech to seek
Diplomacy over truth
Security over vulnerability

Symmetry is lost.
Uneven scars on my hands.
A long sliver divides
one of my wrists in two.
A thick, wizened scrape
completes the line of a pointer finger.
This is how I know
Right from Left.

And my direction
comes from my mistakes.
My orientation
from a mixture
of hate and fate.
My scars ruin my symmetry,
and teach me to distinguish
Right from Left.

If I could breathe the trees
I'd exhale color

And my lungs would be full of Fall,
My chest would Rise with roots and sap.

I'd breathe them out, they'd take it back
We transform into each other.

I'd be Daphne as my
Skin turned to bark

And join the display
of orange red yellow brown

A laurel tree amongst mighty pines
a nymph before the gods

If l could breathe the trees
I'd exhale color

I want to feel love
Like a hug that comforts
Not a drug that quells.

I've been taking lines of love,
the only form I know.
It doesn't penetrate, it just coats
My surfaces.
I'm so hidden, I can't even find myself
Under my approval-seeking mask.

Will the me who tries less
Receive more?
I can't know until I try
To stop trying,
And feel prized for who I am
at my raw material
Not what I do
at my most fearful.

My costume is adored,
Maybe my nakedness would be too,
Even more so in it's realness?
I risk losing my accumulated love stash
In exchange for a single drop of the real thing.

It's the difference between an endless supply of  painkillers numbing my broken feet,
Or putting faith in a cast that heals slow and sure and warm.
And then I may finally walk on my own.

Maybe I won't be so tired all the time,
Not expending all that effort to be worthy,
no belief that my inherint value exists in the sustainable landscape of being.
Maybe I'll finally have the energy
to rest peacefully
In the knowledge that I can be me
when I wake.

It's a leap of faith,
For someone who has grown comfortable
with a hopscotch recipe for success,
Fleeting but with a guaranteed buzz.

I don't want to be a tweeker any longer.
I want to sober up on the real thing.
The pure glass of water that is
genuine affection,
The bedrest of trust,
Puking out my instinct to please
And filling up on the notion that
I, by myself, am enough
For others.
And more importantly,
For me.

Will, I hear your voice, I
Still, I have no choice,
My heart is that strong and
Apart just feels wrong.

I've memorized your hug,
I'm sensitized to the snug
Embrace of your arms
My face nestled, no harms

Can reach my core,
Can breach even your
Simple affection,
This supple connection

Belongs to you and me,
The wrongs and the fees
A small price to pay
To fall in love every day.

Tanned hands rest on
White linens made
With blackened fingers
Dark with dry blood and
Dry calluses because it's
Nice to have nice things.

And isn't blindness the most
Beautiful view?