Broken/Shattered/Beaten

Some things no one should have to go through. Some hurts are too great to even be fathomed by the human mind, filtered through the human heart. When it's killing you, you know, everyone can see it, at what point do you cut it off? When do you turn the scalpel on yourself and slice away the pieces of what's eating you from the inside out? What if what you have to cut out is something you need? What if you've lived through it before, remember what it was like, but it still hurts some much worse than you remember. I would eat my own cancer again every day if I thought there was a chance it would, could make me whole again.

What if you're wrong.

What if you don't need it.

What if you just wanted it so bad that it consumed you, you sacrificed everything you had for it, you gave yourself mind, soul, and heart and you still came up short? WHAT CAN YOU DO WHEN EVERYTHING YOU HAVE IS NOT ENOUGH!? WHAT DO YOU DO WHEN YOU BROKE YOURSELF AGAIN AND AGAIN AND STILL CAME UP SHORT!? how do you go on knowing that life does not reward suffering, but only piles it on when your knees are buckled? How broken can a heart be and still function?

Very.
Fucking.
Broken.

When you look at the little pieces in your hands you become aware that you are seeing, breathing, living. But the task before you is daunting. And you know you'll never get it all back together right. There will be extra pieces, missing parts, holes where blood pours out. The effort is not futile but I will be G0d-damned if restoration in full can ever be done. Completion is a goal to strive for, not one to accomplish. Understanding does not diminish the experience because there is something gained in the journey, in the struggle, in the fight. Even if you lose.

Especially if you lose.

This is not a self eulogy. It is a farewell to arms. To brothers in arms, to a perfect embrace.

Belladonna

I wake in cold sweat. No heat
warms tired bones. Sleeping in
bed is rare - memory won't refrain.
It seizes, stupors, drifts…

Welcome eyes peak over
tea steam, strong hands cradle
frailty. Slow sips avoid
scalding. Language, books,
philosophy. Laughter
at linguistics, question
answered questions,
smiling at (in) silence,
unable to pry
eyes
away.

A kiss.

Butterflies bloom, retreating
lips saturated in stolen
breath, sudden elation.

I respire, spellbound.
Steal from a gypsy?
Only what she'll suffer.

Charging lips reclaim
lost spoils, bargain back
erratic control. I lose
myself melding
hands, hurt, thoughts.

Her face is mine.

Spontaneous carnal
combustion, passion
flares brighter than red-
headed flame, incinerating
inhibition, torching time,
searing all but
one desire.
Friction fires desiccate
days, blaze breath, melt
body boundaries, consume
concern, curiosity.

We collapse to ash.

Cremains born on west winds
sail sky, settle in sand. Phoenix
from twin lepers’ dust something
new, whole, synthetic.

Her face is mine.

I stir. Morning? Parched lips.
Right hand reaches, surrenders in expected
absence. Left shields eyes, blocking
pain. My cheek, brushed. A lone
black hair lays on my bare chest.