How do you love
if
you don’t know how to feel?

If you’ve only
edged around the periphery
of your heart
sketching in the border,
skimping on the full-fledged
assault, but also being bullied
into submission?

I came to you
with beaming face
with shining heart
with joy—
You interrupt.
You need.

Money’s what you need?
Take my money!
Give me love.
Take my passion!
Give me love.
Take me all.
I will sit in a quiet room for you, all by myself.
I will push down everyone in my path for you.
I will I will I will.

I will myself to be a different way.

My only saving grace
is I haven’t stopped hoping
for a brighter day.
But all my sins
are the bent flowers
I’ve stripped along my path
to love.

If I look back I see them.
I’ve destroyed them.
They are mine, but broken things.
They are my broken things,
the ones I never meant to break,
or be mine.

But at least I stopped to smell them,
touch them,
place them on my tongue.
Felt things about their flavour.
Watched their colour bloom
and fade.
Drizzled honey on their petals.
Remembered the thrill
of tucking their opalescent
selves behind my ear.
Felt sorry for their deaths.

Photo courtesy of Loren Zemlicka Photography

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