As you turn unhanded into something flat, you decrease, and cease to become the influence you once were on my sense of sexuality and expression.
Just a man, inadequate. Just a memory of love unreturned. My body doesn’t flux at your image. My hands are mine again.
And in this present moment, on the other side of town.
Another mind aches as yours does.
A kindred Sorrow over brick walls and rooftops.
A Sorrow builds and grows in fluxing rivets, unpleasant surging swell,
renewal taking strength from hordes of sources,
running together, coming together,
into a living organ that reaches into living things.
It doesn’t remain shadowy.
It was never abstract.
And the lucky are touched by it’s delicate hand,
And the rest are stomped into the tread of it’s boot.
Thank goodness home gave me a place to call sanctuary, some toast to melt into, when I was frailer and more nervous than I am now, and when water could wash me away.
A place to build my layers and spread my branches skyward in the courtyard.
It was hard not to take on the opinions of others and let them weave into my psyche,
I did succumb, not willingly but they crept in and my flesh grew around them and they were enmeshed inside for a while.
It took my own gumption to replace them with gold thread and unlearn ideas and beliefs about my worth and about my reasons for suffering, and my body works tirelessly each day to protect and grow the cells I’m made of.
I sew myself together with silky ribbons,
I embroider my outside and in,
I deserve sequins and pretty buttons, so I sing in the bath,
Because it’s soothing
Because I like my singing voice
Because I enjoy the melody and the feeling of creation.
Black bin liner in a tree, that is all you are to me.
You can become other things with your rustle, but that’s down to the wind and the perception of the viewer, see – and that’s me.