Good morning! Today I’m just going to leave some poetry out here, and see if anyone wants it. Part thick blankets of scars, part unrelenting love, part battle weary hearts. But all truth.
The Man was Made of Scars Weren’t you ten feet tall a bulletproof liaison to the world sent to make it so much a better place until bombs exploded shrapnel hit and bullets sang crushed the air between barrel and your unwilling skin until you shed blood, with hands that once combed through sun bleached hair from a world made of cotton candy and Ferris wheels to one painted red in the sands of another country Weren’t you found and lured away from those neon streets, and beach-lived boardwalks by promises of adventure and the sunlit coast became generator lit and full of shadows in gaped-hole buildings Weren’t you soft in creation borne of love and hope until the world sent armies of mercenaries disguised as honest work and missions accomplished all adding layers to the thick wall of scars armoring your body and chaining over the door of your heart Weren’t you ten feet tall once, and always . . . for the rest of your life until these damn wounds Would That I (On the Matter of Anorexia) would that I could save you wrap my arms around and whisper you are enough the final word on the matter, a benediction no rebuttal would that I could save you bring your tears to halt calm the incessant raging of doubt and hurt that runs blades around your brain and makes you forget you are not these unforgiving storms would that I could save you carry you up and over these days of engulfing uncertainty help you come home to a place of just being of looking into a mirror and knowing you were born perfect and nothing has changed since then would that I could save you slay this dragon and hang its bloodied head on the mantle reminding all destructive beasts they’ll meet destructive ends at the hands of my love. But I cannot kill this dragon for you. I can stand beside you I can give you the sword, point out its weak spots and steady your hands on the hilt I can give you rest from battle so you can outlast the nights until we come out, victorious. The Seamstress I’ve made a full-time job out of trying to save your heart but the hours are long and the pay is low the benefits are murky and there’s no time off no one else can cover my shift I reattach pieces as they come undone hold your hand and stitch with the other but the flesh is over sewn and each seam gets weaker and every time I knot the end of one line another begins to fray and fall away and I press my hand to it and steel my nerve and tell you it will be alright even as you thrash against the pain and fight my efforts to keep it from killing you wishing I’d just stop. wishing I’d just leave your battered, bloody, aching, flesh alone can’t hurt if it’s not beating you tell me but it’s my full-time job, and I wouldn’t know what to do if I couldn’t save your heart.