I see you’re bleeding
and it’s getting everywhere,
the markings of your loss.
Rest, it’ll slow.
When it does, you’ll be tired.
“Goodness gracious, you ok?” and a sigh from the one who cares, for now.
He asks and you cannot respond.
You step into a desire for the basics: to survive, to stop losing what is important, like blood and breath and vision.
To know what is important- you don’t.
Will you stop, with your wound?
Bend and labor, fingers in the dirt,
to decide what can be planted here, now, kindly as possible on the trail (a good memory)?
It’s hard to make decisions, I know.
Still, we must be strong.
Think of the healing, the wound closing into a scar
like a cracked riverbed that once nourished everyone else’s growing,
much like a dusty burial mound of wanting, always more.
Healing doesn’t mean it didn’t happen, but that you consumed it: revival is the aim.
Still, decisions…they find a way to change the mind.
They shift with hours, alive. More than I am.
Alive when I bleed out, their consequences here for me when I awaken.
Our decisions shouldn’t be made
so others think we’re fine,
think we’re lovely,
think we’re safe.
They should be carved into the path, reminders
so we can live with ourselves. Because we don’t leave our lives like another might.
It’s life or death to truly live.
From my scars to yours,
accept the tourniquet
and wave off the desire to lean into flesh so soft.
Stand firm. Almost too hard.
Protect the runny, broken middle of yourself till it’s fortified to share.
Don’t show it for simple desire.
Learn to be with you like the greatest lover, one your future love will respect.
Walk the path when you scab.
Be ugly, ferocious!
And take, for the journey asks you to need and want.