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To dare to share our worst
to say “I love you best”
makes a bifurcated simplicity
of omni-faceted reality.
Yet I examine the fiber of those ropes
that endure beyond a daisy’s surface,
past ragged, rusted edges
or tundras of neglect.

If I came to you, head shaved to the skin,
if I came bleeding, naked and sore
to show my petty, my ugly, my drab,
what would we both then know?

Of answers, I hold none
but of predictions I say this:
If you look at me, truly -
if you look at me and stay,
I will be more and less than I am.
I will be lost, then found and lost again.
I will play angel, demon, lover, stranger, prince
and more, sometimes all at once.
I may even walk as one blind,
to drop (or throw) my tools down in the well.

And this I know,
(at least within this moment):
When I cry, my eyes will swell to red
and in tears and snot, I will paint horrors
upon the blotchy canvas of my face.
If we care to bear this,
and I care to bare those things I so wish not to be,
then I can show too what lies beyond it;
show the inner-most, jet and amber spaces
where I messily thrive, feeding myself to myself;
and the garden of my ever-possible.


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