I won’t be found there.
Supple and ready
like an O’Keefe,
I am face down,
clawing from human,
my own true nature,
like orgasming through tears,
hardly seeing
shame and retribution
in the visceral gravity
of it all.

I don’t know
how to respond

Swollen, moist,
age nineteen,
I wanted to drown in the
curve of her hip,
to trace an insatiable
At thirty-four,
I let it be known.

Two men
in thirty-five years.
I am called a whore.

I do not know how
to respond.

There is something behind
my eyes,
freedom rocking her child
to sleep
in a burning cathedral.

I return
wearing scripture
each time
I die.


4 thoughts on “Unabridged

    • Speaking gives us the ability to project who we actually are. Silence leaves it open interpretation. This was a very cathartic poem for me. A bit hesitant to post it but honesty is always best, I think. Thanks for commenting. ☺


    • Wow, thank you so much! Strange how being open and vulnerable can also make us stronger and more certain of who we are. I really appreciate your comments and you adding me to your blog sidebar. Very cool blog you have as well. ☺

      Liked by 1 person

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