Hera

Your presence
Brushed upon my skin
like a wave of heat,
over the immediacy of my need
to be someone
any one
but me...
and like the story you read to me
when the umbilical noose was being cut
from around my neck,

the stone of wisdom fell from the sky
to hit me over the head
but it dug a hole
and fell out from under my chin...

Now what do I give out
that makes people think I am who I am?
Is it a scent?
A vibe?
What is the language of my body
that seems so foreign to me
and yet everyone else around me seems to speak it?

I will not rise to that bait..
did you not say in your sacred book of contradictions
that you need not be loved?
am i not but a shard of you?

Last night as I took my skin off
and slipped under the warm cover of your existence
a believer
more naked than when i was born
I knew what to expect...

I have told you a million times
We are the same you and I:
Our tongues bolted to the same bitter lie,
with our feet chained to the same family tree...
born from a barren woman
We know how to conceal our bewilderment...
we are secret screw ups!

You see,
I know that my love for your hands
is incestuous and taboo
but I can’t help but be stunned
dazed,
every time you handle me:
like that crystal ball rolling on the palm of your hand
weightless
like “liquid passion”
over the pebbles of a faded memory
and I’m always the sole audience of the magic pull of your eyes
drawn to your hands
drowned in your eyes...

we both have a passion for broken things...
can’t you fix me this one time?
can a deus ex machina take my skin off the hanger
and make it a better fit
for all the “me”
that I have flowing,
growing
seeping through the cracks and holes
your wisdom left in my skull?

at least teach me the language it speaks...
you said we need not be loved
and I rose to the bait...

August 3, 2011