I’m not a beachside read I know, I don’t admonish the sun but I don’t soak in prisms either. I don’t wash my hands before dinner, I don’t pray without begging or reneging. I enjoy a little self flagellation and getting to the bottom of other people without disrobing completely. I get the joy of gold rings, breakfast in bed, Monday night rituals with your beloved, a gym routine. I listen to NPR without commitment. I listen to goddesses whisper: “slice it open, pull it out” and I perform these unholy rituals without blinking.
I never once used the word illness with any seriousness, and you should know falling in love with tropes is dangerous. I’m shifty but I’m no prison. I’m open space to contain all the ways you could ever sing your rage, your morose sadness, your longing for adventure with someone who has it. I’m a sky, I hold all of it. Most only see the concept they created. A mirror. I reflect some dark drifter too scared to stand still, but I’m also soft, a real pillow. An unwavering fragile that never learned to ask for something she wanted. I once had a dream where I was running towards you with no shoes, up a tree, ready to greet you in my most natural form: “he won’t care that I’m a glass spider.”
I break so easily.
I lied, I’ve loved everything and everyone I ever got my little pinky on and it’s painful to feel so much without evidence or capture; to stay so inquisitive, enraptured in other people’s stereos. They hold me at bay because they know I always stay. I run from myself but I run right into their bodies in hopes they will keep me safe. Let me weave my glass web, have glass babies, build stronger threads. I have visions of large houses by a lake and a small boy in my arms. I would kill for a son, even a daughter, that I could teach all this to. I would make them pancakes. I would them how to tell a joke, tie their shoes, love without conquest or mission or ire. Teach them to make peace with their heaven, however dark they choose.
God is fire too.